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“I’m sorry,” she murmured at last, “I never should have let— 
you kiss me like that—” 






















I 

THIS WOMAN 

BY 

HOWARD ROCKEY 


Frontispiece by 
P. J. MONAHAN \/ 


NEW YORK 

THE MACAULAY COMPANY 






Copyright, 1924 

By THE MACAULAY COMPANY 


©C1A778303 (Y 

% 


PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 

MAR -7 '24/ 




TO MY MEMORIES OF 

H. E. O. 


* 


































THIS WOMAN 



THIS WOMAN 


BOOK ONE 

I. 

Sitting in the shadow of the trees, on a bench in 
Central Park, Carol Drayton watched a taxi skim by. 
The faint white of an arc light silhouetted two figures 
—ardently embracing. 

Other motors streamed past. Pet Pekinese sneered 
from their perches beside liveried chauffeurs . . . pert, 
painted faces and haughty, enamelled features peered 
from fleeting limousines . . . bored, affluent brokers, 
“bookies,” bootleggers and business men, relaxed in 
their cars and scanned the evening extras . . . 
debutantes and dazzling dow T agers, fur-swathed and 
overjeweled, puffed perfumed cigarettes and chatted 
languidly en route from tea to toilette —and thence to 
dinner. 

Picking up speed—as though impatient to reach a 
rendezvous—a roadster shot ahead—roadhouse bound. 
The youth at the wheel wore a polo coat and a vacu¬ 
ously sensual expression. By hisf side, a * girl cuddled 
closely, her scanty skirt swept to her lap by the chill 
breeze, revealing a shapely expanse of silken sheerness. 
She did not seem cold; her manner belied it. 

Across Fifty-ninth Street, the towering white fac^ade 
of the Plaza—myriad lights that twinkled before porte 
cocheres and club and apartment windov/s. Looking 
on, from its pedestal, the statue of Sherman—its 
bronze veneered with gilt to harmonize with the pol¬ 
ished brass of Manhattan. Trolley cars clanged, horns 
honked—raucously, needlessly—and police whistles 
demanded order from threatening traffic chaos. Side- 

9 


10 


THIS WOMAN 


walks were black with pedestrians hastening to subway 
and elevated. None of them were Samaritans— 
although many were Semitic—and none paused to 
consider Carol. 

The passing panorama confirmed the girl’s half- 
formed conclusion. Personifying power—suggesting 
successful strife and flinty-hearted achievement—the 
picture was sordid despite its outward pomp. The 
grinding of motor brakes suggested a grim ruthless¬ 
ness scarcely masked by the smugness on the features 
of those who rode. Weariness—born of grinding and 
grasping—dogged the dejected footsteps of those who 
walked—or, thanks to “The Friend of the Peepul,” 
suffocated in a hot, disgusting crush as they clung to 
swaying straps, in exchange for a lowly nickel. Carol 
recalled that even the fall of a sparrow does not pass 
unnoticed. Yet, in New York, the fall of the mighty 
causes no ripple of comment. And Carol was less than 
the dust beneath the juggernaut wheels. 

There seemed but two avenues of escape from her 
dilemma. Neither appealed to her as alluring. One 
led by the path which is blazed by brilliant lights— 
which only go out when the Cinderellas go home . . . 
when the fairy princes have won their prizes—or else 
have been stridently laughed at for their pains. The 
reflection of its signs tinted the sky where Broadway 
beckoned to her from the west—tinted it red, and 
streaked it with yellow. The other road to to-morrow 
trailed through a leafy lane—down into damp dells 
and over little bridges—a road like that of life—lead¬ 
ing out of it. That route would take her to the spot 
where foot and bridle paths meet by the reservoir. One 
might gallop or saunter to-its end. 

Over against Central Park West, there were cosy 
apartments. Women whose well-kept appearance be¬ 
tokened leisure and luxury dwelt there—intermittently 
—and then an agent’s sign “To Sublet” would hang 
before one. With dubiously envious curiosity, Carol 




THIS WOMAN 


11 


wondered whether happiness was housed within— 
whether bluebirds nested with peacocks and birds of 
paradise who consorted with hawks. Greeks, Jews, 
Christians—the mighty of the medley that is Manhat¬ 
tan, came to them bearing gifts. Carol was not so 
certain that the motors which left in the night (but 
never by day) did not leave anguish behind. Further 
uptown—and downtown, too—the same little game was 
played—but with much less ostentation. 

Slowly, Carol shook her head. Although of the 
genus moth, she felt no lure of the candle. It was 
already gutted for her. She had heard that New York 
forgets in a day—and she had been gone for a month— 
but Carol knew that she would never forget New York 
—never cease to loathe and fear the monster which 
lurked there. Familiar with its aspect, she had no 
desire to feel its embrace—and her pity was even less 
than that of the monster’s for her. 

The month just passed had proved an eternity . . * 
a nightmare of ignomy during which her soul had been 
stifled beyond hope of resuscitation. She could not 
even barter it now with the slightest semblance of hon¬ 
esty. ... It was shopworn. She had not given in 
passion—nor in the market place—yet the thing which 
women prize, and for which men spend treasure, had 
been snatched from her in the night . . . uncoveted 
. . . unenjoyed . . . ununderstood . . . unfairly! 

Thirty days may be short enough in the scheme of 
eternal existence, and is often all too brief when the 
tune is gay, but the month that Carol had just endured 
had blotted out the pleasures of her pleasant past and 
blackened all her hopes of a rosy future—irrevocably. 

She was hungry—physically and spiritually. But 
her spirit was doomed to starve; and as for a mere 
meal—the thought conjured up cafes—jazz—Jezebels. 
What she longed for was peace—but not at any price. 
And now—with a sigh—she found herself too tired to 
fight. 




12 


THIS WOMAN 


She watched those who were only tired from toil— 
hurrying homeward—and envied them. Along the 
path came a girl and a smiling young man, unconscious 
of her uncurious gaze. In the ecstasy of recent 
betrothal, they were planning a Castle in Harlem, 
where the rents were not yet as high as their hopes of 
married bliss. He kissed her, unaware, or else not 
caring, whether or not they were watched. The girl 
repaid the caress of his eager lips with a wantonness 
that was chaste—fervently trusting. Then they were 
gone—perhaps to a cheap table d’hote . . . later to 
visit a movie—where virtue always triumphs and only 
censored sin is melodramatically vile. 

As their whispering footsteps died away, Carol won¬ 
dered why she had not remained to face her failure 
abroad. Especially since there had been no need to 
return. Poor, optimistic Aunt Margaret’s self-denial 
had financed her niece’s studies. Carol’s lessons had 
enriched incompetent and unscrupulous tutors and 
impoverished the innocent pupil’s only relative. Then, 
when the old lady’s death had cut off the revenue, 
Carol’s last greedy instructor discovered her voice to 
be lacking in volume and in tone. “A waste of time” 
was his verdict—arrived at since she had no more francs 
to pay. Humiliated and tearful, her ambition crushed, 
Carol spent the last of her nest egg for passage. Land¬ 
ing where Liberty mocked her in the greater sense of 
freedom, the girl wondered whether, after all, Lazonetti 
had not been right. 

Abashed and alone in New York, she pondered over 
it all. Paying fees in Paris to be taught to sing, and 
earning fees for singing in cold, callous Manhattan were 
different matters she learned. Each day brought fresh 
experience . . . greater anguish . . . deeper disap¬ 
pointment. Weeks of “walking the weary,” in and 
about Times Square, taught her that voice does not 
matter so much as the turn of an ankle . . . and a 
tractable turn of mind. There were those, of course, 




THIS WOMAN 


13 


who succeeded by virtue of talent alone . . . and then 
there were those whose talents had but little virtue. 

Carol’s ability proved somewhat above the average, 
but her adaptability was much below par. One or two 
opportunities knocked at her door, with offers of mar¬ 
riages slightly morganatic; but while she earnestly 
longed to sing, she was not by nature a siren. Al¬ 
though bom in the West, she was not a miner’s 
daughter. So, since she could not dance the new synco¬ 
pated steps, and because she failed to recognize Pluto 
as Plato, Carol found many anterooms quite discour- 
agingly cold. The try-out knickers and cotton stock¬ 
ings she wore at rehearsal halls revealed the fact that 
her contours were beyond reproach. That her conduct 
was likewise, proved a detriment. Kindly, disinterested 
gentlemen who asked her to luncheons and dinners, 
frankly told her so. And the henchmen of various man¬ 
agers explained with sarcastic candor, that the chorus 
and the cabarets were not Chautauqua circuits. 

Now a policeman sauntered along and surveyed her 
inquiringly. Her modestly well-tailored suit, and her 
lack of immodest manner, satisfied his official scrutiny. 
Swinging his club, he passed on. Yet that brief ordeal 
made her tremble. Tears welled from her eyes and she 
sighed when she was relieved of his steady appraising 
gaze. 

Then came a young man in evening clothes, whose 
gaze, like his gait, was not steady. Obviously, he had 
come up for air between dubious dives. Wherever he 
was navigating, his top coat was thrown open, and 
Carol heard him humming a sprightly song. It fell 
upon her ears shockingly—not alone because she knew 
that its words were naughty—but because it was remi¬ 
niscent of a reeking restaurant, and an interrupted 
meal of haunting memory. Had it been but a month 
ago? 

Searchingly, yet covertly, she stared at the man. 
Under the arc lights, his temples were gray, despite his 




u 


THIS WOMAN 


youthful features, and his step would have been swing¬ 
ing, but for his condition. His clothes were well cut, 
and from his manner she knew that he had been to the 
cellar born. There was nothing hypocritical nor secre¬ 
tive about this exhibition of indulgence in forbidden 
personal freedom. He was drunk—ingloriously so— 
and he gloried in the fact. No, he was not as old . . . 
not at all the type of man her memory associated with 
the song which he ceased abruptly as he came abreast 
of her. Swaying slightly, he paused, slipped his stick 
under his arm, and fished for a cigarette. His case 
clattered to the pavement, and for several seconds he 
fumbled, trying to pick it up. His balance was pre¬ 
carious, but he steadied himself with an effort . . . de¬ 
liberate . . . determined. Carol looked away . . . 
held her breath uneasily . . . grew keenly conscious of 
an alcoholic aroma . . . then covertly watched the 
man as he groped about the soles of her suede 
pumps . . . feeling the ground . . . forgetting for 
what he was searching. 

“Sorry!” he muttered thickly . . . now conscious of 
the girl. “Better strike a match . . 

“I’ll get it,” Carol offered, and stooping, recovered 
the thin gold container. Foolish, perhaps, to speak to 
him, yet she pitied the fellow—wished him away, 
although she feared that he must sit down. If he 
stayed she must move . . . and she did not wish to 
go as yet. There was so much to be decided . . . and 
yet so little. “Here it is!” She drew back her hand 
as he took the case—like a child who fears to feed an 
animal. 

“Thanks—so much!” he muttered. Then, quite to 
himself . . . “Late now . . . Cocktails’ll all be gone 
. . . Dominie’ll be there . . . Terrible bore . . . well 
meaning old ass . . . Thanks. ...” He seemed to 
recall Carol again. His topper was raised with ridicu¬ 
lous courtesy, and with painstaking precision he headed 
away from her. 




THIS WOMAN 


15 


Carol felt relieved. It was growing colder. There 
were heavier things in the hall room she had left a 
month ago . . . yet she dared not go back to the 
shadow of Washington Arch. Her clothes would be 
locked in her trunk, awaiting her claim upon payment 
of past due rental. There, too, were trinkets she 
prized—and a perfectly good leather bound book con¬ 
taining oodles of checks—but she had no funds in the 
bank. In her handbag nestled five dollars . . . not 
even a cent of change ... so the redemption of her, 
belongings was quite impossible ... as unlikely as the 
chance of her own redemption. 

More motors were passing and the girl grew con¬ 
scious of the passage of time. 

Most of the cars were headed southward now— 
theater or opera bound. The thought of their destina¬ 
tions made her smile. The smile was bitter though, and 
only her sense of humor kept her from screaming. She 
thought of Paris—of Lazonetti—of the folly of her 
efforts. Joy had become a joke—hope a haunting 
memory. Yet these passing patrons in limousines were 
going to hear some one sing—at the opera! That was 
amusing—ironic that she should be sitting there watch¬ 
ing folks who might have been speeding to listen to her 
— might have been! Still, New York might read of her 
in the morning after all—not in the critical columns 
. . . just a tiny note it was true ... in the column 
of Persons Missing . . . Would they head it SUI¬ 
CIDE IN CENTRAL PARK, or FOUL PLAY SUS¬ 
PECTED? At least they would say she was beauti¬ 
ful ... a Society Girl, no doubt . . . such accounts 
always did. 

Or perhaps she would never be missed and never 
mentioned. That might be better. 

But hunger reasserted itself. She had read that 
those about to die always ate a hearty meal—in pris¬ 
ons. The thought caused her to cringe. Her slender 
capital would more than pay for a nourishing dinner— 




16 


THIS WOMAN 


yet she dared not enter a place where food was served. 
Not that the waiters would know or think it strange 
. . . no one was searching for her . . . yet she felt 
that she must betray herself at the very sight of a 
menu! If there should be music—or if she glimpsed a 
flask-! 

But the gnawings of Nature called her conscience a 
coward. Perhaps if she did taste something warm and 
sipped a cup of tea, she might think more clearly. She 
needed to think—yet shrank from trying. But with 
sudden resolution she arose. Then, as she hastily 
looked about upon the bench and the ground, a pitiful 
exclamation broke from her lips. Just a moment ago 
it had been there, she was sure . . . now it was gone! 
The policeman was returning. 

“Lost something, lady?” he inquired, and she won¬ 
dered whether he had seen her speak to the man in 
evening clothes. 

“My purse!” she managed to answer, trembling. 

He searched perfunctorily. “Nobody sitting here 
beside you?” 

“Oh, no!” she denied hastily, in alarm. She was 
sure he had seen her restore the cigarette case . . * 
that the bluecoat was suspicious. “There’s been . . . 
no one at all . . . besides, it doesn’t matter!” 

But it did—not merely because of the missing money 
—and she became panic-stricken—wondering what she 
should do. She wanted that slip of paper in her bag. 





II. 


Gramercy Bleeker pushed on with dogged deter¬ 
mination. 

It was damned dark . . . lamps made him think of 
London—fogged. He couldn’t light his cigarette . . . 
too windy. Oh, well! That girl was rather good look¬ 
ing . . . nice sort of girl . . . kind kid ... a bit 
well dressed, too ... or was she? Hadn’t noticed 
particularly . . . only her ankle. . . . Fair enough! 
Sometimes the ones with the shapeliest curves were 
straight! Not bad that . . . rather clever. . . . Must 
remember it. 

Funny noise . . . like a lion roaring. Couldn’t be 
. . . but of course, it was ... in the Zoo, naturally. 
Stupid not to think of that . . . elephants, tigers and 
things . . . right across the street from all the social 
lions . . . some of ’em damned unsociable . . . 
bounders! 

At times the forest seemed an impenetrable maze of 
trees, with turns which kept leading one back to the 
starting point . . . fatiguing going . . . too many 
hills and vales. Should have taken a taxi. But at last 
persistence won. Always would! He was at the exit— 
just below the old Arsenal—and there was Fifth 
Avenue! Good old street. Some via! Nothing like it 
in the world! 

A little gratefully, he leaned against the low stone 
wall. The signs on those lampposts told him, hazily, 
that he had arrived at the proper Sixty cross-street 
. . . unless that three was an eight ... or the eight 
was a three. Both indistinct. 

For a brief interval he studied the kaleidoscopic 
lights of the ever-present traffic. That was a bus . . * 

17 


18 


THIS WOMAN 


people upstairs. It rumbled by . . . swerving skid- 
dishly. Bleeker dodged a south-bound touring car and 
essayed the oily asphalt, zig-zaggedly gaining the 
opposite curb. 

“Carry on, old dear!” he spurred himself stoically, 
then paused for orientation on the east pavement. 
“Mush be Park Av’nue jush ’head. Lesh go!” 

Bleeker arrived—in time for cocktails—and in 
season to make an early fool of himself. 

An ebony attendant grinned . . . the lift made him 
dizzy . . . damn nonsense! His entrance was almost 
a blank, but it was the cue for chiding. Rot! He was 
all right! Pleasant sort of confusion . . . too hot 
. . . stuffy! Aline was a maid of the mist—a froth 
of green and silver spray . . . little sparkling things, 
like fireflies, danced in her hair. Stockings seemed too 
human to be fabric . . . might be flesh . . . girls 
didn’t wear ’em sometimes . . . might have forgotten 
to put ’em on. She looked good enough to drink . . . 
cool . . . inviting . . . kissable . . . then quenching 
—as she glared at him. He didn’t get that . . . then 
he did. 

Well, she needn’t get sore about it! 

That black figure was perplexing . . . must be 
the Rector . . . but it wasn’t . . . that V was Mrs. 
Sturdie’s back—turned against him. Hang it! . . . 
must get a brace on himself. . . . Those orange-blos¬ 
soms were good. . . . No, another wouldn’t hurt him 
. . . used to ’em. . . . 

Why did that fool Judson keep bringing him food? 
. . . He wasn’t hungry . . . just thirsty! 

Then it happened. 

A shattering of crystal ... a pious Ixclamation. 
... an impudent, feminine giggle . . . and his own 
unsober laugh. “Sorry! Damned stupid of me!” 
Then Bleeker found himself on the floor. Look’t . . . 
all those legs under the table! He wondered which 
were which. 




THIS WOMAN 


19 


Whitney Duane was pulling out one of his arms. 
The butler yanked the other from its socket. “Oh, say 
now!” Needn’t lift him . . . he didn’t need help. 

Vaguely, he caught the glint of a monocle, slowly set 
beneath the busy eyebrows of Baptiste Stratini . . . 
the man was laughing at him. 

“What a wanton, woeful waste!” sighed the Italian, 
observing the spilled cordial staining the lace of the 
table cloth. 

Mrs. Sturdie would be peevish . . . must apolo¬ 
gize . . . what? No, he wouldn’t shut up! 

“Do gather him together and see him to his car 1” 
He’d heard that tone before—when Mrs. Rhinebeck- 
Sturdevant issued an ultimatum. “My dear Rector— 
I’m so upset!” 

“So’s my nice little cordial!” Bleeker mourned. 
Somebody laughed . . . that fool preacher was sput¬ 
tering ! Then they bundled him out into the hall 
. . . someone had his hat and coat . . . the door 
clanged. . . . 

“My dear Mrs. R.-S.,” the clergyman murmured, as 
his nephew speeded the parting potted guest. “0/ 
course you are upset! Even my own calm is ruffled. 
And—” he paused to daub at his vestments with a 
handkerchief—“my cloth is polluted with the abomi¬ 
nable odor of unsanctified beverage.” 

“What a shame!” she sympathized, arching her eye¬ 
brows as she glanced toward Baptiste Stratini. “Shall 
we go into the library?” 

The Rector held aside the portieres, and sighing 
deeply, followed her into the softly lighted room, grate¬ 
fully breathing its pleasant, restful atmosphere. 

“And now,” the Reverend Gouverneur Duane be¬ 
moaned, “I find myself confronted with another dis¬ 
graceful scandal in the innermost fold of my flock!” 
He paused to adjust the button at the back of his 
collar, as though its stiff-starched righteousness 
choked him. 




20 


THIS WOMAN 


“But poor Gramercy isn’t the only black sheep, you 
know!” his parishioner defended. 

“No, dear shepherdess!” he sighed once more. “And 
for your sake I wish I might overlook the incident. 
Yet to do so would only be to countenance its repeti¬ 
tion. Please do not think I wish to chasten you!” he 
added hastily. “I could not bear to be eternally 
reproving so charming a member of my congregation.” 

“I couldn’t bear it either!” she replied a little 
impatiently. 

He shook a finger at her ... a ringed, pudgy one 
... in mock condemnation. “Do you know you are a 
very wicked woman? It grieves me that your other¬ 
wise delightful assemblies are all too often marred by 
such lamentable exhibitions. Just whiff the horrid 
redolence of my uniform of office!” 

“Pm more than sorry!” she wondered what to do. 
Then her cameo-like features brightened in a charm¬ 
ingly mischievous smile. “I have it! Whitney has just 
given Aline the loveliest new scent— Allure du Diable — 
it’s all pervading. Let me get the atomizer and spray 
your-” 

“My dear!” he protested, raising his hands . . . 
palms out . . . piously. “It would never do. I might 
be suspected of even greater indiscretions!” A sly, 
simpering witticism, half in horror, partly innuendo. 

“I hadn’t thought of that,” confessed his hostess 
contritely. “But, really—don’t you think you’re a 
trifle too exacting? Pleasant people are not all in¬ 
clined to be prudes these days.” Without expecting 
an answer, since her remark was assertive ... in¬ 
tended as a gentle rebuke . . . and not intoned as a 
question . . . she sat down on the davenport. Smil¬ 
ing, with a hint of envy in her expression, she looked 
up at a portrait above the mantle. From its frame, 
the plain, pretty features of a Pilgrim maid gazed 
down upon her descendant . . . without unkindness 
. . . with no suggestion of criticism in the frankly 





THIS WOMAN 


21 


friendly eyes. Her stout little heart had rebelled 
against narrow bigotry, and Mrs. R.-S. wondered what 
she would have thought about the Rector . . . even less 
tolerant in his way, after the passage of time, than 
his predecessors . . . thundering the threat of eternal 
damnation upon the horrified ears of their God-fearing 
flocks. 

The Rector, too, regarded the woman in oils, and 
then took note of the buckled slipper tapping the fen¬ 
der of the grate. How different was this adorable 
creature from the one on the wall, with her modest 
fichu and her prim, plain homespun dress. He con¬ 
trasted her primitive vanities and emotions with the 
complicated, sophisticated sensuousness of the woman 
who sat radiant before him, surrounded by luxuries 
which set off and accentuated her loveliness . . . allur¬ 
ing to an unholy degree. Especially he was aware of 
her absence of fichu, of the sheer clingingness of her 
imported gown, revealing each sinuous line of a figure 
as lithe as the form of a maid—although the object of 
his uncovert devotion was a widowed matron. 

Despite an effort to put it from his mind, he recalled 
an early American novel, in which a scarlet woman and 
a minister of the gospel had figured somewhat disgrace¬ 
fully. The author, a realist of the times of which he 
penned, had made his classic a powerful picture of the 
clergyman’s temptation ... a pathetic justification 
of the woman’s weakness . . . and, rather uncomfort¬ 
ably, Doctor Duane grew conscious of the impression 
that the dominie in question had been a bit of a cad. 
Yet how multiplied were the pitfalls of the present age! 
Then, like an actor gone wool-gathering, he recalled 
his lines and the need of impressing his audience. 

“I wish our views might harmonize!” he told her 
earnestly. “Life would then be like wandering through 
green pastures—where only still waters flow!” He 
gazed at her enraptured . . . exaltedly ecstatic . . * 
and he thought of love. Not that degrading, simulated 




22 


THIS WOMAN 


sentiment conceived in blatant jazz and born in illicit 
stimulant—but a genuine, spontaneous, all-giving and 
godly emotion! 

But as he observed her indifference . . . her utter 
lack of response ... he sighed. This woman was 
not weak. She was strong in her convictions ... a 
tower of social strength . . . with a heart impreg¬ 
nable. Yet he meant to be doughty . . . militant and 
persistent. But he bent his head . . . remembering 
how vain is vanity . . . how revolting is sin . . . how 
weak the flesh! Mentally he scourged himself. “If 
all pleasant people will persist in rebelling against the 
canons of decency and decorum—how can I continue 
to accept your invitations . . . wink at flagrant viola¬ 
tions . . . and by my unprotesting presence, appear 
to condone them?” 

“I fully appreciate your position . . . and I regret 
that you feel ill at ease with my guests . . . even 
though I cannot fully share your opinions.” She tried 
not to be needlessly resentful. 

“I am glad!” he rubbed his hands together with sat¬ 
isfaction. “There is a bond between us—a happy, 
holy one! Yet you must see that a continuance of my 
present course would tend to mitigate the force of my 
shafts against current evils. It would serve to contra¬ 
dict the very words with which I must admonish you 
all—if my sermons are to be interesting . . . and 
profitable. . . .” 

“Financially?” she murmured absently. “I forgot 
. . . you always publish them, don’t you? I suppose 
the papers rather like you to flay us . . . and our 
poor exposed backs are so bare!” 

“You are not serious!” he flushed at her inference 
of an income from a well-known press syndicate. Then, 
in an effort to overcome his confusion and establish 
himself on less dangerous ground: “You even evade the 
issue.” 

“Just as Whitney does when I ask him whether he 




THIS WOMAN 


23 


buys for his clients the stocks he personally regards as 
good investments.” Purse-proud and avariciously am¬ 
bitious ! She knew how welcome were money-changers 
in Doctor Duane’s temple. She was glad to taunt him 
with it. 

“Save for its practical helpfulness, I abhor finance!” 
he abjured in his most impressive pulpit manner. “Its 
principles perplex and vex me. Speculating in futures 
may be well enough for a broker to urge upon his fol¬ 
lowing . . . but as a clergyman, I cannot well recom¬ 
mend the practice!” That, he thought, would look well 
in print later on. 

“But,” she challenged teasingly, enjoying his dis¬ 
comfiture, “doesn’t your whole preachment urge just 
that? How can you be sure the investment’s sound . . . 
that the pavements will be of gold and the gates of 
pearl?” 

“Please do not pretend to be literal!” he objected, 
flustered. “You know I’ve never been overly militant 
against the occasional fracture of the original Ten 
Commandments. As a liberal, tolerant man of under¬ 
standing and the deepest sympathy, I realize that, 
among us, a few of the Shalt Nots are more or less 
obsolete . ,. . should I say in some need of mild revi¬ 
sion? Yet transgressions such as we have just wit¬ 
nessed—on the part of an otherwise upright youth— 
constitute one of the most pernicious of ouf present 
problems.” 

“I really hate to serve liquor—especially now that 
no one thinks of anything else,” she said wearily. “Be¬ 
sides it’s frightfully expensive—yet what can one do? 
You’ve no idea of the cost! My fuel bills used to make 
me hotter than my furnace . . . now coal is the 
cheapest thing I put into my cellar.” 

“But if you would take a stand against it . . . 
refuse . . .” he snatched at a straw. 

“I couldn’t—largely because you insist that drink¬ 
ing’s wicked. You clergymen are conduct barometers. 




24 


THIS WOMAN 


We flock to hear you in order to know the things we 
shouldn’t do. It’s really the only way we can learn 
what is the smart thing to do.” 

“Charming heathen!” he conceded, inwardly confess¬ 
ing that her fight had failed, and hoping to turn away 
her wrath with flattery. “Your defiant attitude makes 
you all the more intriguing. . . . Yet, let me say . . 

“Are you going to try to convert me? It might 
prove diverting!” 

“Perhaps I like you better as you are,” he resolved 
against the effort, and took another tack. “But con¬ 
sider lilies like your daughter—who neither toil nor 
spin, and yet are arrayed in a manner which would 
have made Solomon blush! Think of their orgies of 
extravagance . . . their literally ‘silhouette’ skirts 
and even more obvious shortcomings . . . far too inti¬ 
mate dances . . . roof-gardens, roadhouses—kissing 
in limousines. . . .” 

He was working himself into a fanatical frenzy of 
denunciation when an impudent voice piped up from 
the doorway. 

“Oh, Doctor Duane! Surely you’re not asking 
mother to motor with you? Fie, fie, Mummy!” 

With a saucy swish and a shake of her blonde bobbed 
head, Aline came toward them, prepared to take up the 
cudgel in defense of her generation. Not that she 
cared very much what the Rector thought . . . nor 
anyone else for that matter . . . but just because it 
wouldn’t do to let him get away with any such nonsense 
as that. 

“Really, Doctor Duane,” she assumed a defiant air, 
“if limousines weren’t made to kiss in—why ride in 
’em? But we won’t argue that. Kissing’s awfully 
stupid at best—don’t you think? I do . . . and I 
know what I’m talking about! . . . Any girl can 
make a man kiss her . . . the skill lies in getting them 
to stop!” 

“My dear child!” protested the Rector. 




THIS WOMAN 


25 


‘*Fm not! . . . aren’t you glad?” she asked him im¬ 
pudently. “But don’t let me intrude. There’s Stratti 
in the music room, and if I don’t go in to him he’ll 
pound out something classic on the piano! Oh, 
Strat-ti!” she called to him through the open door, “I 
want you to pet me a little—I’m peevish as the devil l” 
And with an airy wave of her polished finger tips, she 
flitted from the room and shut them in. 

“You permit it?” the Rector reproached her mother. 

“She only said it to shock you . . . she didn’t mean 
to be rude. . . .” 

Again he sighed. “But they will dance . . . she 
and this Stratini ... a sophisticated man, affiliated 
with the demoralizing glamor of the operatic stage! 
He will hold her in his arms ... in close embrace. . . .” 

“Signor Stratini is my friend!” Mrs. R.-S. reminded 
him icily. 

“Forgive me . . . but I am so in earnest! These 
toddles and cuddles . . . various animal perambula¬ 
tions and more impossible gyrations—call them what 
terrible names we may—they can but tend to lower the 
relations of those who indulge in them. I shrink from 
such close proximity of palpitating bodies . . . from 
the intoxication of syncopation ... to say nothing of 
its illegal and invariable synthetic accompaniment! I 
assure you, my dear, that to-day’s dances are making 
modern Salomes of our loveliest girls!” 

“And Herods of our high school boys?” she depre¬ 
cated. “Never fear . . . Aline isn’t likely to demand, 
your head . . . and I’m sure she won’t turn poor 
Stratini’s.” 

“Perhaps not . . . but you must admit the natural 
fascination of such a man in the eyes of a romantic 
girl. He is a genius in his field, who scoffs at my doc¬ 
trines and makes his slurs amusing. At table this eve¬ 
ning, just after I had said grace, I could not help over¬ 
hearing a wager he made with her. ... I think it had 
something to do with my selection of scriptural 




26 


THIS WOMAN 


verse . . . and the forfeit was a pair of costly silk 
stockings against a pair of improper pink pajamas!” 

“Apparently you don’t approve of pajamas,” she 
said, “but are silk stockings a cardinal sin?” 

Speculatively, she surveyed her own, and the Rector 
was not unconscious of their contours, of the high 
arched instep and the dainty turn of her ankle. 

“Not in themselves,” he admitted, averting his gaze 
and toying with the ribbon of his glasses. “But I beg 
you, listen to that dreadful phonograph ... an ally 
of the devil and a potently dangerous one! Your 
daughter, and a man old enough to be her father. . . .” 
He paused, finding the phrase unfortunate in its sug¬ 
gestion. “A man of whom I can hardly fully approve,” 
he went on, “is treading with her, abandoned measures 
once confined to the underworld ... to dives and dens 
of iniquity . . . and now it invades the sanctity of 
your home! Consider—instead of such an association, 
suppose Aline were to come under the kindly, spiritual 
guidance of a man. . . .” 

“Of your own temperament?” 

“You have guessed my secret!” He stepped nearer, 
embarrassed, pompous . . . awkwardly eager. 

“Don’t be absurd!” she stopped him, not unkindly. 
“I’m much too old to dream of ... of such things as 
love ... or marriage.” 

“In the flower of your beauty!” he contradicted, 
with the fulsome gallantry of a bygone age which 
placed women upon a pedestal that even denied them 
legs. “Yet before I presume to plead my own cause, I 
wished to discuss with you the possible alliance between 
Aline and my nephew ... an ideal union in so many 
ways! Wealth . . . intrenched social position . . . 
and the impregnable fortress of religious prestige. 
What more could young people ask?” 

“Love . . . and a certain amount of liberty, per¬ 
haps,” she answered dryly. “Don’t misunderstand. I 
like Whitney . . . because he is human ... he would 





THIS WOMAN 


27 


neither bore Aline to death nor drive her to distraction 
by having senseless affairs with other and otherwise 
women. Yet I am not convinced that they care for 
each other . . . maritally. Nor am I certain that 
such a marriage would be wise. Just as you and I 
disagree ... in some measure . . . Aline reflects my 
attitude. She might not make Whitney the type of 
wife of which you could conscientiously approve.” 

“Oh, really!” he disclaimed. “You must not imagine 
that I mean to criticize you! Your very paganism 
makes me adore you all the more. . . .” 

A noise behind him caused his ardor to wilt, and the 
Rector stiffened abruptly, trusting that his remark 
had not been overheard . . . that it might not be mis¬ 
construed. Then something collided with him and he 
nearly lost his balance. Toddling into the library 
from the music room, Aline and Stratini, entwined 
in the Cleopatra Clinch, had run him down unob¬ 
served ... in the preoccupation of their propinquity. 

“Oh, Stratti!” Aline cried out with affected alarm, 
as her eyes sparkled elfinly, “The Doctor’s all red and 
puffy. . . . I’m afraid he’s going to faint!” 

“I’ll get Judson to fetch some brandy,” suggested 
Stratini, maliciously good-natured mischief in his tone. 

“Stratti, please!” begged Mrs. R.-S. with amusedly 
indulgent disapproval. She hated scenes, and she 
dreaded a clash between the two, the inevitable brief 
battle in which Stratini’s sarcastic fire was all too 
likely to scorch the Rector’s flapping wings. 

“Not for me , sir!” scowled the incensed little man, 
as he brushed a smudge of powder from Aline’s bare 
shoulder off the sleeve of his coat, in speechless 
exasperation. 

“But if you are ill?” Stratini persisted, solicitously 
mocking. 

“You know that I need no liquor!” the Rector found 
his tongue, “and also that I do not approve of its use!” 

Stratini shrugged as though perplexed. “But the 




28 


THIS WOMAN 


Master evidently did,” he said. “You recall His turn¬ 
ing water into wine. . . 

“A most unfortunate passage ... no doubt garbled 
in translation . . . and which might be well expur¬ 
gated from the Script!” snapped Doctor Duane. “In 
any event, I have always considered it the needful to be 
suppressed account of Christ’s most ill-advised act!” 

“My God!" gasped Stratini. 

“But I must be going,” the Rector announced 
haughtily, consulting his watch. “I am shortly due to 
address a gathering of good people who are zealously 
striving to dispel the clouds of distressing darkness 
which surround us and bathe our poor world in the 
light of a more perfect day. I wonder if my car has 
arrived. . . .” 

Mrs. R.-S. rang for Judson, and Stratini, still chuck¬ 
ling softly, reached into his pocket for his wallet. 
“Before you go,” he detained the Rector, “let me show 
you a little stanza I copied from an old sampler . . . 
a prized antique possession of our good friend the 
Bishop-” 

“Bishop Rhinebeck?” queried the clergyman, reach¬ 
ing blindly for his pince-nez, as though doubting his 
ears and fearfully dreading lest Stratini should produce 
some bit of risque or sacrilegious verse. 

Stratini nodded. “The sampler is framed on the 
wall of his study,” he explained. “I copied it off the 
other evening while we were playing bridge . . .” 

“The Bishop!” repeated Doctor Duane, with empha¬ 
sized incredulity, yet hardly venturing to censure the 
act of his immediate chief. 

“A most interesting and illuminating bit of embroi¬ 
dery, more than a hundred years old,” Stratini said as 
he unfolded the written copy. “It was worked by the 
needle of a tiny girl ... at the age when a child 
should believe that all the world is a garden where 
fairies play. Yet conceive of the type of mind that 
could teach a child this idea of God: 





THIS WOMAN 


29 


“Religion should our thoughts engage 
Amid our youthful bloom— 

’Twill fit us for declining age—• 

And for the awful tomb!” 

For a moment there was silence. Then Stratini said, 
“Think of it! Baby hands sewed that sentiment into 
homely fabric! No wonder men and women feared the 
Lord!” 

“You can’t be serious!” Aline refused to believe it. 
“Surely children were never told such dreadful things!” 

“They were—really,” Stratini assured her. “The 
Bishop preserves the sampler as a horrible example 
... to hold up before naughty flappers who grow 
restive under the mild restrictions he gently imposes 
upon those whose happiness and welfare are his sole 
objects in life.” 

“The Bishop’s a lamb ... an old dear!” Aline 
enthused. “He’s so nice himself that I almost want to 
be good . . . just so’s to please him.” 

“But beware, painted hoyden, with your wicked 
wiles and your baby smile!” Stratini warned her in 
sepulchral tones, “the awful tomb yawns, yet you jazz 
along, steeped in sin and iniquity, toward this gloomy 
goal!” 

“ ‘Oh, death, where is thy sting?’ ” quoted the hor¬ 
rified Rector. “The grave has no terrors for the 
righteous,” 

“You make me wonder,” Stratini said. “How ter¬ 
rible heaven would be without little Aline to make faces 
at all the angels and get the goats of the Saints!” 

But the clergyman ignored him, and tenderly turned 
to his hostess. “Good-night, dear lady,” he mur¬ 
mured. “May I leave with you just one thought? . . 

“A penny for yours!” Stratini whispered to Aline. 

“Piker!” she charged contemptuously. “They’re 
really beyond price.” 

“Good-night, my child . . . and God bless you,” the 
Rector beamed upon her and she made a little curtsey, 
revealing her rolled-down stockings. 




30 


THIS WOMAN 


“To you, Signor Stratini . . . adieu!" 

“Bon voyage!" Stratini waved to him in Chautauqua 
pantomime. “When we sail with Charon, I fear our 
routes will not be the same . . . since the Lord is mer¬ 
ciful,” he added, to Aline, as the ruffled pouter pigeon, 
with pompous dignity, took his hat and stick from 
Judson and stalked from the room. 




III. 


“The man is inconceivable!” exploded Stratini, 
goaded beyond all patience and polite restraint. “He 
proclaims himself a soldier of the Church—and, para¬ 
doxically enough—I somehow believe him sincere . . . 
but almost in the same breath, he presumes to criticize 
his commander—to find fault with his chosen hero!” 

“A mere matter of rhetoric,” Mrs. R.-S. reminded 
him. “You take him too seriously.” 

“How else am I to take him?” demanded Stratini. 
“It is the whole trouble. We are given laws—scrip¬ 
tural and temporal—so absurd that we laugh at them. 
They are worse than none. If we are socially and mor¬ 
ally sick it is, because we have too many doctors . . . 
too many meddlers . . . and meddling has grown to 
be as profitable as bootlegging. This fellow Duane is 
a braying, hypocritical ass whose sermons are more 
salacious by far than the vapid motion pictures our 
righteous morons condemn! Not that I mean to defend 
the saccharine sex muck of the screen!” 

“Stratti,” Aline broke in, preening herself before 
him with exaggeratedly seductive movement, “don’t 
you think I’d make a perfectly scrumptuous vamp?” 

“There you have it!” he exclaimed triumphantly. 
“Our bigoted friend has suggested a new diversion to 
her ... I heard his tirade during the cocktail hour. 
What else can one expect? Until this no-more-cakes- 
and-ale Blue Law group develops some constructive 
criticism, the situation will remain intolerable . . . the 
problem unsolved. The whole psychology of such fana¬ 
tics is absurd. They tear down without building up 
. . . take everything away without proposing any¬ 
thing in return. . . .” 

“Oh, do stop moralizing and give me a cigarette!” 

31 


32 


THIS WOMAN 


Mrs. Rhinebeck-Sturdevant sighed wearily. “The Rec¬ 
tor’s denunciations are monotonous enough; but even 
your scintillating defense of immorality and license 
grows tiresome at times.’’ 

“Pardon me,” he smiled. “Descended from a Medici 
Pope, I’m reverting to type.” He held a match for her 
. . . then selected an Egyptian as though the eight in 
his case were not as alike as proverbial peas . . . fitted 
it into his holder, and thoughtfully lit it. 

“Well?” Aline leaned over the back of the daven¬ 
port, impudently bewitching. “Aren’t you going to 
offer me one?” 

Stratini started . . . absently . . . apparently 
about to further pillory the departed preacher . . . 
then, emerging from his meditations, he raised his eye¬ 
brows, provocatively, pretending to consult her mother, 
“Is the child old enough, Eleanore?” 

“She makes 7ne feel very old at times! By all means 
give her one of yours or she’ll be raiding my own pet 
supply.” 

Aline struck a match on the turned sole of her slip¬ 
per . . . inhaled deeply, and blew a cloud of smoke 
defiantly at Stratini, taunting him affectionately 
beneath lowered lashes. She contemplated him with a 
mock air of adolescent horror. “So your influence is 
pernicious, is it? . . . your philosophy deplorable . . . 
your example damnable . . . your every thought and 
gesture contaminatingly immoral! Oh, Mummy— save 
me from this beautifully terrible man 1” 

“Some obsolete customs, alas, are no longer in 
vogue!” lamented Stratini. “You ought to be taken 
out to the woodshed——” 

“Oooh! Stratti!” she dropped her eyes demurely. 
“It wouldn’t be proper!” And she pulled down her 
shimmery skirt, covering her knee . . . only to burst 
into a peal of laughter and dart to the door expect¬ 
antly. “There’s Whitney back! . . . Get Bleeker 
home unspilled?” 





THIS WOMAN 


33 


“Safely parked for the night—I hope!” was the 
cheery response from the foyer hall. “Insisted that 
he was a gold-fish and wanted to go for a swim in a 
flowing bowl.” 

“Well, don’t come in here!” Aline warned. “I’ll 
come to you— you may not be sober . . . besides, 
Mummy and Stratti are busy—ogling each other, and 
panning your sanctimonious uncle . . . aren’t you, old 
dears?” . . . Her laughter trailed after her down the 
passage, echoed by the sound of the kiss with which she 
greeted Whitney. . . . 

. . . “What is there to do about it—if anything?” 
Mrs. R.-S. importuned, as Stratini settled himself in an 
overstuffed chair and drew a tabouret toward its arm. 
“Distractingly brazen . . . yet beneath that good 
outside, she can't be bad, Baptiste!” 

Stratini nodded, agreeing. “Nowadays one only 
finds Foolish Virgins in the Bible. They’re extinct 
. . . modern ones never slumber . . . seldom sleep . . . 
aren’t caught napping while the Bridegroom tarries to 
toddle en route. It is you, and I—and the Rector— 
who are foolish! How can we expect Aline to weigh 
values? At the same dinner, she is confronted with a 
drunken youth and a dogmatic bore . . . both your 
guests. Doctor Duane makes the thought of abstemi¬ 
ousness obnoxious. Gramercy’s contretemps caused 
laughter instead of disgust at his intoxication. The 
Rector’s continual carping becomes insufferable . . . 
such drivel drives us to folly from sheer ennui. Elea- 
nore, women wouldn’t even dream of half the world’s 
wickedness if this man Duane didn’t constantly warn 
them against it ... I mean it. . . . His condemna¬ 
tion of the most innocent vices serves to hold up serious., 
sin as a blessed relief. ... His righteous fingers point 
the shortest and pleasantest route to damnation, and 
his urge is far more compelling than the smiles of the 
seven sirens who sit and smile on the rim of hell.” 

Mrs. R.-S. laughed, unamused. “I, too, could be 




34 


THIS WOMAN 


bitter, were it not for my natural responsibility. I am 
quite capable of conducting myself as I see fit; but 
Stratti, I sometimes wonder whether I surround the 
girl with proper influences. 55 

“Influences ! 55 snorted Stratini. “We’re entirely sur¬ 
rounded by them. They’re confusing. The Bishop’s 
interpretation makes me really love religion ... as 
I would adore any beautiful, exquisite, desirable thing 
which promotes content—happiness. ... I find peace 
in it . . . and pleasure ... a sense of well-being. 
I could rejoice in an eternity spent in the inferno, chat¬ 
ting with Bishop Rhinebeck. If it were not impossible 
to die after death, I should expire if I had to dangle-my 
heels from a cloud and listen forever to the distressing 
discords the Rector would pluck from his harp.” 

“But remember, Stratti, . . . Aline is a girl ... a 
very young girl! . . . and virtue in a woman . . .” 

“Is all too often its own reward . . . unhonored 
and unsung. ... Yet virtue is various . . . fre¬ 
quently half-baked . . . often overdone ... a great 
deal depends upon what we really mean by virtue. 
Whatever it is, you need have no fears for Aline . . . 
flesh of your flesh . . . image of your body, and your 
mind . . . for at heart, my dear, you are a purist.” 

“I wonder!” 

“Why? I know it. Aline, too, will like those things 
which cultivated people enjoy, and she will shun the 
shams and the senseless sophistries we reject.” 

“But can you understand what a mother feels . . . 
and suffers . . . ?” 

“I must admit that I have never given birth to a 
child . . . nor have I as yet endured the exquisite tor¬ 
ture of matrimony . . . yet blasphemer though I am 
branded, by our Jesuitical neighbor, I wonder whether 
I might not give Aline more practical counsel than he 
. . . or even you. The fearsome vice monster has 
nothing in his little bag of tricks that is not all too 
obvious to me. There are no illusions. ... I know 




THIS WOMAN 


35 


the answer . . . torn from the back of the book which 
the Rector never read.’* 

“You’ve been through the mill—Aline is still grist!” 
she reminded him apprehensiyely. “Perhaps she has 
too much freedom . . . too much motoring, dancing 
. . . drinking. . . 

“Bah!” ... he drained his highball. . . . “Vol¬ 
stead vices are vile, I admit . . . but these, my dear, 
have been brought about by reform . . . what we may 
not have in the home or in public places, we seek secre¬ 
tively—at the sign of the blind pig. Yet limousines are 
not essentially licentious . . . you ride in them . . . 
so does the Rector, fawning upon the most voluptuous 
ladies of his congregation. Nor need roadhouses be 
ruinous . . . some of them are pleasantly prosaic 
. . . dancing, too, may be inspiring—save to sordid 
souls.” 

“But constant familiarity . . . you know the old 
adage. . . .” 

“Like most—a pretty phrasing of an absurd super¬ 
stition . . . yet in a measure true, so long as vice 
remains mysterious. Suppressed curiosity has bred 
scarlet hoydens since time immemorial . . . modern 
frankness is the safeguard of the genus flapper. I tell 
you that if a girl of our day goes ‘wrong,’ as the sub¬ 
titles have it, she does so with eyes wide open . . . 
because she wants to . . . whether for profit or pleas¬ 
ure . . . and the sensational slime-slingers who pollute 
our pulpits and constitute themselves the devil’s press- 
agents, only urge them on!” 

“Are you quite fair, Stratti?” she searched for the 
soundness of his accusation. “I’m not altogether sure 
I agree. Despite the drab dreariness of the Rector’s 
picture, its basic common sense almost persuades me 
to leave undone the things I shouldn’t do. Then you, 
on the other hand, make me blush for the things I in¬ 
stinctively feel I should do.” 

“Well?” he challenged. “What more natural? . . . 




36 


THIS WOMAN 


We long for the jam pots and want them all the more 
when we’re told we mustn’t taste them . . . yet I 
believe that morality’s largely a matter of mind ... a 
point of view. If we’re honest with ourselves, we shun 
harmful habits . . . but sometimes sauce for the goose 
is poison for the gander.” 

“How can one decide then?” she asked facetiously. 
“Faced with the choice of two evils, I shall probably 
adopt a middle course that will make me ineligible for 
either conventional hereafter.” 

His face lit up. “An unknown eternity ... a pri¬ 
vate paradise!” He kissed his finger tips to her exot- 
ically. “What a delightful adventure! . . . perhaps 
alone—together, of course—for whither thou goest I 
go, and thy hades shall be my hades.” 

“Is the Scotch making you eloquent?” 

“I hope not. I hate eloquence.” 

They fell into the silence of contented understanding. 
She dropped her cigarette into an ash tray, and Stra- 
tini, relaxing, stretched out his long legs, toyed with 
the cord of his monocle, and rested his finely poised 
head against the back of the chair . . . staring at the 
ceiling . . . imagining murals which pleased him ut¬ 
terly. Approving their mood, the mantle clock ticked 
pleasantly . . . even the ukulele monstrosity, to which 
Aline and Whitney were presumably gliding, failed to 
disturb his peace of mind ... or to rouse Eleanore 
from her reverie. . . . Restraint was forgotten . . . 
restfulness reigned in the library. 

Gradually Stratini grew conscious of a strong yet 
subtle fascination, a soothing, sensuous cognizance of 
something which prompted him to click his cigarette- 
holder in four-four time, against the rim of his tall 
glass, in which only melting ice remained, destitute of 
the vestige of bonny beverage. . . .Was it only a 
pleasing, haunting memory, drifting back over years, 
or did he really hear a mellifluous melody, softly call¬ 
ing . . . increasingly intriguing? 




THIS WOMAN 


37 


His tapping stopped . . . the impression remained 
. . . audibly now. 

“What record is that?” . . . absently . . . skepti¬ 
cally . . . incredibly. 

“Carmen, stupid!” . . . The guiding genius of the 
Opera asking that! 

“But of course! . . . Who sings it ?” . . . This irri¬ 
tably . . . unconvinced of reality. 

A noncommittal, inconsequent shrug of shapely 
shoulders . . . then Eleanore, too, listened, spell¬ 
bound. Exquisitely, the notes of the Habanera drifted 
to them on the stillness . . . drowned out by a passing 
taxi in Park Avenue, five stories below . . . clear 
again, and sweater now . . . conjuring recollections 
of Calve and Farrar ... of flashing eyes and tapping 
heels . . . and then Mrs. R.-S.’s satin toe beat time 
against the fender, as Stratini’s manicured nails accom¬ 
panied the air in the cadence of castanets. 

66 Who sings like that?” he sprang up in eager enthu¬ 
siasm. “It is no record ... it is real . . . human 
. . . a voice! . . . Great God— what a voice! . . .” 
Half across the room he paused, a hand to his ear, 
thrilled to the depths of his musical soul. “Crude,” 
he appraised in a murmur, yet undiscouraged. “Soul¬ 
ful .. . somehow true! Ah, what tone! . . . Im¬ 
measurable in potentiality.” 

Abruptly the song ceased—unfinished . . . and the 
door of the music room flew open with a bang . . . 
Aline, all aflutter, appearing on the threshold. . . . 

“She fainted!” 

“Who fainted!” Stratini thundered ... as though 
nothing else was of consequence ... as if he had been 
affronted unpardonably. . . . 

“The girl outside. ... We were listening. . . . 
Whitney threw her a coin . . . she swayed, tried to 
catch it, nodding her thanks to us . . . and then fell 
backwards. . . .” 

“Imbeciles!” . . . With a bound he reached the 




38 


THIS WOMAN 


French window, and flinging it open stepped out upon 
a small stone balcony, overlooking the carriageway, 
with its stunted, boxed trees and miniature lawn, 
flanking a sparkling fountain. ... In the light of the 
white globes arranged like candelabrum before the im¬ 
posing entrance of the towering apartment, he caught 
a glimpse of the pale face of a girl. . . . Aline, her 
mother and Whitney . . . crowding at his shoulder, 
staring down at the crescent of paved driveway . . . 
all talking ... all speculating . . . doing nothing! 
Inaction infuriated him. Had the world lost its wits? 

A liveried doorman lifted the limp form from the 
shallow pool. . . . “Poor thing!” Aline pitied her, 
“she is soaked to the skin!” 

“ Maledetto!” Stratini stormed, and literally tore at 
his hair. Brushed back, iron-gray, it made him dis¬ 
tingue until disorder transformed him into a pirate. 
Only careful grooming caged the tempestuous Sicilian 
within and presented a suave exterior to civilization. 
“She will take cold! . . . Fool! . . . Pig! . . . 
Spawn of a thick-headed aborigine!” . . . His voice 
roared down into the cavernous court, accentuated by 
its resonant acoustics. . . . 

. . . Occupants of adjoining apartments, above and 
below, peered from the windows of seventeen-room-and- 
four-bath suites, with mingled emotions of mild an¬ 
noyance or passing curiosity . . . slender men, smug 
men, stunning women; domestics . . . disheveled males 
in dressing gowns, termagants, absurd in elaborate 
peignoirs . . . Ethiopian keepers of the gate, gold- 
laced . . . grinning . . . officially outraged at the in¬ 
trusion of the girl, grew servile as they gaped upward 
in amazement . . . misconstruing Stratini’s rage, and 
hastily helping a chauffeur to gather up scattered sil¬ 
ver, carelessly tossed to the singer in contemptuous, un¬ 
appreciative charity, they none too gently bade her 
begone. 

“Spawn of ten thousand devils!” the impresario de- 




THIS WOMAN 


39 


nounced their zealous stupidity, and in his convulsive 
gesticulation, his fingers closed on Aline’s arm in a 
bruising clutch. The elaborate chasing of his signet 
ring lacerated her flesh. . . . Stratini, unconscious 
of it, groaned. “They handle a delicate instrument 
like some sack of dross!” He lost all control of him¬ 
self . . . the pirate predominated, and his polished 
veneer vanished. 

“Great God of Intolerance!” he roared in a frenzy 
of gesticulation. “These eunuchs of plutocratic purity 
drive her off like some gin-jaded, screeching sot of the 
street! Stop it, I tell you! Stand still until I 
come! . . .” 

. . . “You’re hurting me!” Aline cried out and drew 
away in pain. . . . 

“Hurting; hell!” He hardly heard her as he thrust 
her roughly aside to shake his fist at a puzzled police¬ 
man who hastened to the scene below. . . . “Hi! Hi! 
Gendarme! . . . hold her carefully ... so much as 
bruise her flesh and I’ll have you broken! . . . Wait! 
... I am coming, thou great nizzies! ... It is Stra- 
tini speaking!” . . . 

Then, brushing past Aline and Mrs. R.-S., thrusting 
Whitney aside with a shove of his elbow, this tartar, 
gone insane, dashed through the library and disap¬ 
peared . . . leaving the trio to gasp at the voluble 
burst of picturesque profanity which marked his 
abrupt departure. 




IV. 


“Weakness —-probably hunger,” Stratini diagnosed 
as they placed the girl gently upon the davenport be¬ 
fore the fire in the library. Mrs. R.-S. was arranging 
the cushions beneath her head, while Whitney Duane 
stood by, fascinated by the play of the flames on her 
features, his presence quite as helplessly useless as 
that of a beach party chaperone. Aline, eager but 
ignorant of what she should do, stood excitedly near 
with a water glass in her hand. The sight of it was 
too much for Stratini’s patience, and with a sweep of 
his fist, he knocked the goblet to the hearth, where it 
smashed in a thousand pieces. 

“Brandy!” he prescribed brusquely, “and more air! 
... Do you wish to stifle her?” 

Resignedly contemptuous, the inhumanly dignified 
Judson effaced himself in the direction of his pantry, 
and Mrs. R.-S. placed a restraining hand upon Stra¬ 
tini’s sleeve. “You’ll frighten her, you great bear!” she 
warned; “she’s regaining consciousness . . . and you’re 
acting like a brigand who’s abducted an heiress.” 

Reproved, amused, yet nervously restive, he stepped 
aside and let her slip her arm about the prostrate girl. 
. . . Wearily, Carol Drayton opened her eyes and saw 
them all in a misty unreality of pathetic bewilder¬ 
ment. . . . Dazed, and a little timid, she remembered 
the policeman, and felt relieved at his evident absence. 
. . . The cushions were soft and agreeable, easing her 
tired body and her splitting head, but it worried her 
that her sodden shoes and wet, frumpled frock, were 
staining the tapestry. . . . Water, in a cold little 
stream, was running down her neck. . . . 

“I’m sorry,” she managed to murmur faintly, “I 
40 


THIS WOMAN 


41 


didn’t mean to trouble you . . . but I’m better . . . 
lots better . . . and I must go. . . 

“Where?” Mrs. R.-S. asked doubtfully, solicitously. 

“To nowhere, I think,” Carol smiled wanly, “just 
away from here . . . anywhere. . . .” 

“Not until I hear you sing again!” Stratini’s basso 
crashed upon her ears, and she shrank from the fire 
which flashed from his eyes. . . . “Please!” he modified 
his imperative desire, modulating his tone. 

“I—I couldn’t . . trembling ... on the verge 
of tears. . . . 

“Never mind—another time, perhaps ... if you 
feel like it,” Mrs. R.-S. soothed, petting her hand. . . . 
“You really can’t leave just yet. . . . Try not to 
worry . . . and tell me your name.” 

“Does it matter?” It couldn’t . . . she dared not 
take the risk of telling them. 

“Of course it matters!” Stratini stentored. . . . 
“What shall I call you except a little fool ... a great 
fool, perhaps? . . . How can I make a nameless no¬ 
body the talk of the musical world?” 

The tears flooded from beneath her damp lashes, but 
hurt resentment dried them as fire flashed from her 
eyes . . . and Stratini smiled ... he liked that 
spirit. 

“It’s not fair to make fun of me . . . you wouldn’t* 
if you understood. . . .” 

“Do you think I never knew adversity?” he depre¬ 
cated. “Suffering and singing are correlated—like 
trials and triumphs. ... I do not sing . . . yet I am 
constantly pained by proxy, through association with 
those who do. . . .” 

“I tried!” she flung at him, extenuating her sense 
of failure. “When I went to Europe to study. . . .” 

“Ah! Then you have studied?” ... his manner 
was almost menacing . . . the mood of a father who 
fears some irreparable injury has been done to his 
child. . . . “Under what charlatans?” 




42 


THIS WOMAN 


“Lazonetti,” she told him, half proud—half fear¬ 
fully, “and Carvalho and di Baritza.” 

“Mountebanks and money grabbers! . . . wheedlers 
of wages from would-be warblers! Bah! A crime . . . 
a waste of good money and more valuable time!” 

“So they told me,” she sighed resignedly. “Even the 
managers here say so. . . .” 

“Managers of what?” . . . with fine scorn. “Musical 
comedy? . . . what sacrilege! ... Of course they 
would not have you . . . these sordid seekers of shapes 
and purveyors of putrid banality! . . . Why ? . . . 
Because you can sing—not mere inane obscenities, but 
aria^ beyond the throats of jazz Jezebels! ... I am 
right? . . . Bien! ... It will be time enough for 
sentiment when you have arrived. . . . The opera is 
no heavenly choir . . . but you will leave love outside 
the stage door . . . abandon amour, ye who enter 
here! . . . until you are great, and pause to grow 
temperamental en route to the perdition of oblivion!” 

“Stratti, you’re irrepressible . . . wound up!”' Mrs. 
R.-S. intervened, signing to him to move away as she 
turned again to the girl. . . . “Are you hungry, my 
dear ?” 

“I was hoping to earn my dinner,” Carol told her 
the truth. “I have not eaten since yesterday, I think 
. . . there were some coins . . . and my purse . . 
but she bit her lip . . . she did not wish to think of 
that. 

“No matter. . . .” Mrs. R.-S. whispered. . . . “See, 
the coins are here, but the purse . . .” 

“Bring a steak . . . a feast ... a banquet!” 
shouted Stratini, clapping his hands and staring about, 
as he paused in his pacing of the rug. . . . “Someone 
feed this girl! . . . Fetch caviar and a salad, pates 
. . . sausages ... a menu, I say ... at once!” 

“Be sensible—and be quiet!” laughed Mrs. R.-S., “sit 
down and subside! . . . Here is Judson with the 
brandy. . . . Yes, a little broth, some crackers . . . 




THIS WOMAN 


43 


nourishing but light and dainty . . . enough for the 
present.” 

“I am crushed!” Stratini bowed his head, assuming 
an abashed demeanor, but his eyes twinkled mirthfully 
as he berated himself: “I would have stuffed my little 
songster, eh?—and then, perhaps, she would burst! 
. . . Pouf! . . . N’est-ce pas? . . . exploded as a 
little pig, or a toy gas-balloon—like our charming 
Aline.” 

“Great pig!” Aline retorted, mimicking childish re¬ 
buttal. “Fat, insulting blimp! . . . swelled up with 
imagined importance!” And she made a moue at him. 

“You are very kind,” Carol protested faintly, and 
stirred uneasily, “but you mustn’t bother . . .” 

“Bother!” exclaimed Stratini. “Why should they 
not bother when le Bon Dieu has sent you to the win¬ 
dow! For years I have searched and dreamed of a 
voice like yours!” 

“I’m afraid le Bon Dieu has played you a shabby 
trick!” Carol discounted with pitiable humor. . . . 
“Everyone else has laughed at me . . .” 

“They dare not laugh at me! What do they know? 
Do not I—Baptiste Stratini—say that you can sing?” 
he bellowed belligerently. 

For a moment she stared at him unbelievingly. . . . 
“Not the Stratini?” 

“Who else?” with a little bow; then, breaking into 
a smile: “I see you are also intelligent. You have 
heard of me.” 

Deliberately, he screwed his monocle into his eye, and 
with the air of a connoisseur appraised her as he might 
have examined some rare treasure, just unearthed, and 
of doubtful intrinsic worth, despite its artistic appeal. 
His manner was critical . . . seeking flaws . . . for 
Stratini was not certain this girl was quite so inno¬ 
cent as she seemed . . . perhaps not guiltless of some 
ulterior motive ... of resorting to subterfuge in 
order to gain his attention. Yet, as he surveyed her, 




44 


THIS WOMAN 


his chest swelled. His eye and his judgment seemed 
to confirm his trained ear. 

“Umm! . . . Teh!” his tongue clacked, and he 
twirled his waxed mustache to tiny pin points . . . 
fondled his close cropped imperial . . . and then 
straightened back his heavy shock of hair. “There is 
but little lacking . . . the face, the figure—superb! 
. . . owi, there is magnetism—a subtle something which 
can be developed into personality . . . and the voice! 
Add to that, Baptiste Stratini, and voila! ... we 
have the finished product—an opera singer—a star!” 
In staccato, “I think you will do !” 

“Do what?” Carol, guardedly suspicious, flushed 
beneath his impertinent summary of satisfaction, as 
he rudely voiced his opinion ... at least, it would 
have been insufferable in another man . . . yet the 
others in the room did not seem to think his procedure 
strange. 

“You will do as I say!” he snapped peremptorily. 
“Do you imagine I joke about singing? It is too vital 
a matter with me. . . . But come—you haven’t told 
me who you are.” 

“Carol Drayton-” as though that were sufficient 

. . . even too much . . . and she trembled. 

“An American?” . . . She nodded. . . . “Excel¬ 
lent ! . . . A European myself, I am weary of them. 
Bolshevists, monarchists, republicans ... all loafers 
. . . dreamers . . . disturbers . . . too much of the 
temperament by far. I think you will be more reason¬ 
able— n’est-ce pas?” 

The glint in his eyes puzzled her, and she was 
strangely disturbed by the smile on his handsome, 
swarthy features. “Why should you wish to do so 
much for me?” Carol doubted, skeptical even as to the 
identity he proclaimed. 

“Because I am selfish and vain . . . resentful . . . 
plain disagreeable! If I make you a star, I shine in 
your reflected glory ... I create a new luminary to 





THIS WOMAN 


45 


outshine my tarnished, eccentric and exotic galaxy . . . 
and in doing so I make jealous those so great children 
who shall soon become more obedient when Stratini 
speaks. Bah! They drive me insane with their posing 
and their tantrums. ... But you shall be the clay . . . 
and I, Stratini, the molder!” 

“Watch your step, Stratti!” teased Aline. “Don’t 
do a Pygmalion and fall in love with your statue l” 

“I am in love—with its prospect!” 

“I mean more personally-” 

“You mean more impudently than I permit!” he 
glared . . . really annoyed. 

“You mustn’t mind them,” Mrs. R.-S. whispered, 
aware of the dawning distrust in Carol’s mind. 

“Perhaps you will find the clay unworthy,” Carol 
warned. “Besides, I have no funds. If I am to go on, 
I must do something to earn a living. . . .” 

“The girl is mad!” raved Stratini. “She talks of 
a living when I offer fame and fortune!” 

“I’ve gone one day without eating,” she reminded 
him. “I haven’t liked it.” 

“Then don’t do it again! I will provide bed and 
board—clothe you—in garments to which no strings 
shall be attached—other than those of restraint. You 
shall diet, but not starve. You shall work, yet you 
must play—pleasantly . . . not too hard. You will 
sing . . . and I forbid you to weep. In return, I 
promise you success—I, Stratini—but I warn you— 
your very soul will not be your own!” 

“Oh, Stratti!” Aline shook her head roguishly. 
“You’re giving her perfectly wonderful grounds for a 
breach of promise suit . . . and the Rector won’t like 
your trifling with her soul!” 

“The Rector be damned!” . . . beside himself. . . . 
“Where is that idiot with the broth ?” 

“Here, sir,” Judson answered meekly, removing a 
decanter from the tabouret and replacing it with a tray. 





46 


THIS WOMAN 


“Eat!” commanded Stratini. “Be merry—laugh! 
To-morrow we shall sing!" 

Carol smiled . . . looked a little eagerly toward 
the steaming soup . . . and then sneezed. 

“Good God!” he shivered in alarmed apprehension 
. . . “don’t do that! Colds are the bane of my ex¬ 
istence! And they are inexcusable . . . the Rector 
should prohibit them!” 

“It’s your own fault!” Mrs. R.-S. accused him. “I 
don’t know what we’re thinking of, keeping her here 
like this in those wet clothes! Judson, carry the tray 
to Miss Aline’s sitting room. . . . You run along, 
dear, and have Celeste get some dry things ready.” 

“What am I to do?” Stratini demanded petulantly. 

“Go home ... to bed . . . whatever you like!” 
Mrs. R.-S. dismissed him. “Only get out of the way!” 

“If I were you, Stratti,” Aline urged him, “I’d kiss t 
Mummy for that! She treats you just like a pet poodle 
dog. You ought to be ashamed . . . yowl Galli and 
Mary Garden say you’re an untamed brute, but 
Mummy has you running around in circles!” 

“Minx!” he shook his finger at her in exasperation, 
yet with a curious smile in his snapping eyes, “I’d like 
to take your advice . . . but perhaps it wouldn’t be 
proper. I’d also like to turn you over my knee!” 

But he went away docilely enough, and took Whitney 
Duane with him, bound for Gramercy Bleeker’s rooms 
... to see if he still slept, and whether or not he had 
consumed all of his case of Scotch. 




V. 


A cold blast swept Park Avenue, and Stratini buried 
his chin in the collar of his fur coat, his long cigarette 
holder protruding half a foot before him as he braced 
himself against the biting wind, and, scorning a taxi¬ 
cab, walked southward with Whitney. 

There was a powdering of late-season snow on the 
grass plots which masked the underground tracks of 
the New York Central, running beneath the street, and 
the lights of the huge buildings, clustered about the 
Forties, stood out clear and brilliant in the sharp 
evening air. Whitney looked at his watch. “Like to 
drop in at the Yale Club?” he suggested. “We might 
give Bleeker a ring from there.” 

Stratini shook his head. “I think not ... if you 
don’t mind. Let’s go on to his rooms. Best to let 
sleeping dogs lie . . . but if he’s up we’ll kennel him. 
I’m just a bit dubious about that boy.” 

“You?” Whitney chuckled; then added, “Gramercy’s 
hardly a youngster, you know.” 

“Too old to take the Rector’s advice,” Stratini 
agreed, “and probably old enough to resent suggestions 
from me.” 

“That’s amusing . . . coming from Baptiste Stra¬ 
tini. You’re not thinking of reforming Gram?” 

“Bah! Reform nauseates me! I would not change 
him one iota. ... I merely wish to find out what gifts 
the good God gave him.” 

“You believe in God?” 

“Why not? He believes in me.” 

Whitney laughed. “That’s funny.” 

“But why? If not, why am I entrusted with certain 
talents? I have never known anything to be done 
without a purpose—conscious or unconscious—either 
47 


48 


THIS WOMAN 


in the working out of one’s own destiny or else in in¬ 
fluencing the acts of another . . . usually to further 
our own ends. . . . God doubtless had some selfish mo¬ 
tive in placing me here on probation.” 

“Selfish?” 

“Certainly. Am I sufficiently insignificant not to 
be a part of the divine scheme?” 

“You and the Rector ought to get along better!” 

“God forbid that I should be affiliated with these 
Alliances for the Abolition of Children’s Toys! Nor 
do I care to be on the payroll of the great and good 
Jeremiah Punderbunk, whose cup of oil runneth over! 
Yet I would like to do what I may to make the world 
happier . . . not alone for Baptiste Stratini, but for 
all who care to join my little Society for the Suppres¬ 
sion of Sadness. It’s a gay little company, Whitney, 
my boy . . . may I put you up?” 

“It sounds expensive,” laughed Whitney. 

“It isn’t . . . and it is. One contributes one’s own 
gifts, practices toleration, and battles valiantly against 
the hosts of gloom. Meddling is a misdemeanor . . . 
hypocrisy is punishable by hanging. Our fundamental 
weakness is the fact that we are all narrow. At best, 
I cannot agree with those whose views are not mine 
. . . but I strive prodigiously to mind my own 
business.” 

“But you were worrying about Gramercy?” 

“Only wondering whether he is getting all he should 
out of life. There are false gods of pleasure as well 
as awesome idols of gloom. Gramercy’s latest god is 
gin. Why?” 

“Because he can’t get good whiskey, probably. . . . 
His ancestors traded six bottles of schnapps for the 
whole of Manhattan Island . . . now Gramercy’s sell¬ 
ing the original purchase land in order to pay his 
bootlegger.” 

“Even the bootlegger is worthy of his hire,” Stra¬ 
tini observed. “He has his purpose, and he is a cheer- 




THIS WOMAN 


49 


ful soul. Yesterday I dropped into a place on Sixth 
Avenue and chatted with the Irishman who violates the 
law there. I asked him what he thought about Pro¬ 
hibition, and he said, ‘God bless the man who invented 
it.’ There’s tolerance for you. He bears them no 
ill will. . . . But, of course, he’s prejudiced . . . the 
vicarious law pays him dividends.” 

They turned into Fifty-eighth Street and walked to¬ 
ward Fifth Avenue. A gust sweeping from Central 
Park cut through their heavy coats and made their 
faces tingle. It wrenched Stratini’s cigarette from its 
holder and sent it scurrying along the pavement, leav¬ 
ing a trail of sparks in its wake. He caught his silk 
hat and jammed it down on his head and Whitney 
almost bent double against the wind. 

Battling in silence, they struggled up the street, 
pausing before a brick and white stone fac^ade, nar¬ 
rower and taller than any Colonial house, yet aping, in 
a measure, the architecture of one. They hurried into 
the basement entrance and Whitney pressed one of the 
buttons in a row of polished brass slots, into which per¬ 
sonal calling cards were thrust. Stratini stamped his 
feet and beat his arms about his great chest. . . . 
Whitney rang again . . . impatiently. Then the door 
began to click its latch, and the two pushed past the 
curtained glass portal. 

In the hallway their burning ears were greeted with 
sounds of hilarity, the blatant banging of a player- 
piano, mingling with other noises, suggesting that a 
riot was in progress in some near-by insane asylum. 
Obviously, Gramercy Bleeker was entertaining . . . 
having a party. 

“The dead do come back,” Whitney observed and 
began to mount the stairs. 

“If so, I wonder why!” chuckled Stratini, and fol¬ 
lowed him up the flight. “Judging from the racket, 
I assume that a little company of congenial devils 
has returned with Bleeker.” 




50 


THIS WOMAN 


“Whoshzat?” someone’s alcoholic articulation stum¬ 
bled over the balustrade. 

“Two true believers desiring speech with the spirits !” 
Whitney called up as they rounded the turn. 

“Thazshou, Whisney?” from Bleeker above. 

“Right . . . and Stratini.” 

“Hi lishen!” Bleeker called over his swaying shoul¬ 
der, through the open door of his diggings. “Heressh 
two new drinks . . . Wishney ’n’ Strashini. . . . 
Good’un wot? . . . shtraight shtuff an’ a cock¬ 
tail. . . 

“Idiot!” Whitney scowled as he reached the top¬ 
most landing. “Why didn’t you stay put when I 
tucked you in bed, and what’s the big idea of this 
bathing suit!” 

“Told y’wash gol’fish!” Bleeker grinned inanely. 
“Got shirens, too . . . nish shirens. . . . He-eer 
shiren!” And as Stratini’s eyes reached the level of 
the rail, a golden-haired mermaid danced into the hall, 
clad in a one piece beach costume and a pair of kid 
ballet shoes. 

“Oooh! Look at Neptune I” giggled the girl, and 
Stratini, screwing his monocle under his bushy brow, 
regarded her with a sardonic grin. 

“Come ri’ in, ol’ man o’ shee!” Bleeker welcomed 
him with maudlin enthusiasm. “Got champagne ’n’ 
everyshing . . . shsprish party . . . fashshleep when 
tel’phone ringsh. . . .” 

The girl left them with a silly laugh and flitted back 
into the living room, where rugs had been rolled up 
and the furniture jammed into corners. The aroma 
of spilled liquor greeted their nostrils, mingled with 
exotic perfumes and the overpowering odor of lip¬ 
stick, powder and perspiration; almost unbearable 
after the freshness of the outside air. Windows were 
down tight and the curtains were drawn, because the 
neighbors complained at ten-minute intervals ... or 
perhaps because the girls were so scantily clothed. 




THIS WOMAN 


51 


They resembled will-o’-the-wisps as they moved amid 
the haze of cigarette smoke, through which the shaded 
electric lamps only faintly glowed. Stratini thought 
of a night in Nice as he looked in at the scene, ob¬ 
serving a maid whose costume proclaimed her a Water¬ 
fall, and another who would have excited the envy of 
Eve, so skillfully was she bedecked with scanty adorn¬ 
ment. Dancing with her was a youth in conventional 
Satyr’s attire, and, placing a record on the victrola 
disc, was a sort of human bronze statue, into whose 
grinning lips had been thrust a cigarette. Flushed and 
hilarious, the company clapped its hands and stamped 
its feet on the floor as the new arrivals entered, and 
Nicholas Vanzandt staggered over to Whitney. 

He announced himself as the ghost of John Barley¬ 
corn, and he proved a potent spirit as he thickly ex¬ 
plained the purpose of the assembly. It seemed that 
they were en route to a masquerade ... at the house 
of some friends, halfway across Long Island. In pass¬ 
ing, they had honked their horns, but Bleeker had only 
slept on. Then they had bribed the hallboy, and enter¬ 
ing with a passkey, had pulled him out from the covers, 
loudly demanding a drink. 

At once Alicia Conniston . . . the siren Bleeker had 
mentioned . . . conceived the idea of Gram’s getting 
into his bathing suit . . . so’s he could go as her part¬ 
ner. This had somewhat incensed the Satyr, but the 
Man of Bronze developed brains and—laboring—gave 
birth to a great idea. They would dump out all the 
water from the aquarium and fill it up with champagne, 
passing it from lip to lip, while the frightened fantails 
disported themselves in the bubbles. Hailed with de¬ 
light, his proposal was quickly acted upon, and, in due 
course of time, their pocket flasks replenished the flow¬ 
ing bowl. Now, Vanzandt announced, it contained a 
most novel punch, made from synthetic gin, with a dash 
or so of bay rum and the entire contents of the bottles 
from Bleeker’s toilet table. Obviously this beverage 




52 


THIS WOMAN 


was not without its wallop, for the fish had long since 
ceased to wiggle their gills and had given up the ghost 
more than willingly. 

Bleeker hospitably pressed this good cheer upon 
them, but neither Stratini nor Whitney were inclined 
to brave the dose. Whereupon the Waterfall seated her¬ 
self at the keyboard and began to threaten it with utter 
annihilation. Her jazz drowned out the blare of the 
raucous phonograph, and the Lady of the Leaves and 
Beads began to agitate her body in a loose-jointed sort 
of shuffle, while the others gathered about and eagerly 
urged her on. 

■“ DemimondeV* Stratini inquired, in a stage-whisper 
to Whitney. 

“Not at all . . . debutantes . . . girls of rather 
good family,” Duane shook his head. “The one at the 
piano’s Nancy Tiilington . . . you remember the kid 
whose marriage was lately annulled when her father 
raised Cain? . . . Ran away with a chauffeur, after 
he’d shot his rival—a traffic cop in the park. I be¬ 
lieve she’s engaged again now ... to Bronze Buddha 
over there . . . he’s Randolph Pruyn under that cam¬ 
ouflage . . . rich young idiot!” 

Stratini’s gaze wandered from the dancer to the girl 
at the piano. One glittering rhinestone strap had 
slipped from her shoulder, and the absence of transpar¬ 
ent waist—sunk into a little pool about her lap—gave 
her the appearance of a pink and white statue partly 
submerged in a shallow pool. Her form swayed with 
the syncopation, and she tossed back her brown bobbed 
curls, as she threw up her impudent chin to keep the 
smoke of her cigarette from smarting her eyes. They 
were bleary, lashes beaded, darkened below like a 
houri’s. 

Now she put down the cigarette to burn out on 
the music ledge and, with a crash of chords, swung 
around to demand that someone else take her place. 
The Satyr gave a flying leap and made the piano 




THIS WOMAN 


53 


bench, seating himself beside her and assaulting the 
keys with even greater fury. Waterfall began to whirl 
with Bronze Buddha, while Nick Vanzandt seized little 
Eve and cuddled her in the corner, announcing proudly 
to all the world that he held the record for uninter¬ 
rupted, long-distance, endurance kissing. 

Bleeker, in his bathing suit, and the blonde, whose 
costume would have shocked Ostend, were seated on 
the floor, legs curled beneath them as Gramercy tried 
to persuade a goldfish to sit up and sing. They were 
giggling like two kids, and their sides shook with 
mirth when Stratini palmed the little corpse and pre¬ 
tended to toss the fish down his throat. 

Buffoon that he seemed, he glared at them sar¬ 
donically, with a Machiavellian leer. 

They were too drunk even to see the frown behind 
his smile. 

The two sitting there in beach attire reminded 
Whitney of an early Gibson drawing, showing a group 
in evening dress, adorning a drawing room in postures 
only appropriate for the sands. Then he turned to 
stare at Stratini in utter astonishment. The im¬ 
presario was uncorking a bottle, and proposing the 
quenching of thirst as an interlude to the fun. 

“Say, Stratti,” Whitney warned him, “if this crowd’s 
ever going . . .” 

But Stratini waved him aside peremptorily, and pre¬ 
sented Bleeker’s companion with a bubbling glass. In 
turn he plied the other two girls with champagne, but 
playfully refused that beverage to the men. Instead, 
he announced, brandy would be just right, and estab¬ 
lished the measure by downing a stiff drink himself. 

“On the level, Stratti,” Whitney nudged him again. 
“They oughtn’t to have any more to drink. . . .” 

“Get thee behind me!” Stratini laughed at him. “It 
will keep them out of mischief . . . just wait, and we 
shall see.” 

But, as Whitney had feared, it didn’t. Instead, the 




54 


THIS WOMAN 


Waterfall lady became hysterically peevish, and an al¬ 
tercation with the Lady of the Leaves threatened ap¬ 
palling disaster to their thin disguises. This melee 
was mediated by the Satyr’s kissing them both, and 
then Bleeker became possessed of another inspiration. 
Since he and Alicia Conniston were both arrayed for 
the waves, what could be more appropriate than a swim 
in the tub? They would turn on the shower and fill 
up the plunge with gin . . . only . . . confound it! 
. . . everyone had drunk so much that there wasn’t 
enough. Alicia thought the suggestion rippingly splen¬ 
did, and announced that she’d be a sport and get in 
without any cap. Nancy advised her not to, and 
Gramercy took offense, so Stratini came to the rescue 
and offered to sing a song. 

They were keen for that, and Stratini appeared in 
his element, as he- took off his coat and rolled up his 
sleeves, and sat down before the piano. Patting him 
on the back and shouting like mad, they crowded 
around him, all talking at once, and forgetful of other 
diversions. His long, heavily ringed fingers touched & 
tender lullaby . . . really beautifully . . . and from 
sheer amazement at the nature of his selection, every¬ 
one fell silent. 

“Now!” he laughed aloud, as he took in their sheepish 
looks. “Now that you can hear me, I will sing my 
little song . . . yes? . . . and you shall all join in 
the chorus, n*est-ce pas?” 

“Now ... we are ready? I shall sing you a little 
verse of my own composing!” 

He began to play very softly, as they stared at him 
uncertainly. From the keys rippled the notes of Where 
the River Shannon Flows , and the Satyr, scorning all 
things emerald in his sober senses, began to blubber sen¬ 
timentally. The others tried to comfort him . . . 
then, with exquisite burlesque in his intonation, Stra¬ 
tini began to put words to the air . . . 




THIS WOMAN 


55 


“She was a boot-leg-brer’s <2awgh-ter. 

And she sold hooch all day— 

At whatever fancy prices 
The thirs -ty boobs would pay! 

Then she met a Revenooer — 

A handsome guy was he! 

. . . But he turned out a crook! 

... All her profits he took! 

And then—he went a-way-eee!” 

They were all crying when he finished ... all save 
Whitney, whose own eyes were wet with laughing at 
the perfectly serious way in which Stratini had ren¬ 
dered the absurd ballad. Vanzandt, who wrote im¬ 
possible short stories for impossible magazines, and 
who was at work on a play when he wasn’t playing 
about, saw great dramatic possibilities in the theme . . . 
meant to build a heart-throb thriller on it . . . Ken¬ 
tucky mountain stuff amid the canons of New York 
. . . persecuted heroine rebels at disposing of wood 
alcohol to her father’s clients . . . father didn’t make 
the stuff, of course . . . innocent old party . . . and 
then the big wallop, where honest revenue agent . . . 

“Hell!” the Satyr brcke in, his patience exhausted, 
“ain’t no such animal . . . like to have the job for a 
week. . . .” 

“Shut up!” Waterfall slapped his face. “He’s going 
to sing it again.” 

And he did, as tears ruined synthetic complexions 
and Bronze Buddha sobbed hiccoughingly from the 
sofa, upon which he sank from exhaustion, overcome 
with grief. But Stratini was not content to rest upon 
his laurels. Like some earnest chorus-director, he was 
teaching them the words . . . repeating them over and 
over . . . trying a line with piano accompaniment, and 
then shaking his great fist at them as though utterly 
disgusted. But at last he nodded with satisfaction, and, 
seizing a riding crop to use as a baton, led them 
through the stanza ... his manner as serious as that 
of a maestro rehearsing a mass. 




56 


THIS WOMAN 


“Now . . . with just a little more of the sentiment 
... a trifle more softly!” He raised his fingers like 
the man in the hair tonic advertisement . . . beamed 
upon them persuasively . . . and then nodded with 
satisfaction as they tried, with pathetic earnestness, 
and horrible harmony, to make their voices blend . . . 

“She was a boot-leg-brer's dcmg h-ter . . 

From the outer door came the sound of a battering 
ram, accompanied by a furious ringing of the tele¬ 
phone ... an exasperated, persistent jangle. Indig¬ 
nant, soul-wearied calls came from the court, penetrat¬ 
ing the closed windows and heavy hangings which shut 
out the night but did not imprison the din. 

Whitney answered the summons from the hall, and 
a wrathful figure in overalls presented himself bel¬ 
ligerently. “Ye’ll have to be cuttin’ this out!” he 
roared at them, “the folks in the house is raisin’ hell!” 

“Let ’em!” Bleeker responded, dangling beside the 
cellarette. “Our motto is ‘Let the neighbors move!”’ 

“Can’t get vans ’nough!” shouted Bronze Buddha. 
“C’mon . . . ev-erybody! Wow!” 

“C’min an’ ’ave drink!” invited the spirit of Barley¬ 
corn, hospitably. 

The Janitor would not ... he proposed to call the 
police . . . they couldn’t get away with that stuff any 
longer! But they did . . . at least Waterfall did. She 
danced alluringly toward the sweaty man, threw her 
white arms about his bull neck, and, pecking at a 
stubbly cheek as red as her painted lips, dragged him 
into the room. 

“Oooh! See my nice cave man!” she shrieked with 
delight, and with her own hands forced ambrosia upon 
him. The kick of the loving cup, the heat of the room, 
and Waterfall’s languorous smile, mellowed and soft¬ 
ened his heart. Five minutes later, the phone having 
been disconnected, the Janitor was teetering on top 




THIS WOMAN 


57 


of the table, and trying his best to balance a goldfish 
on the end of his nose. 

Then Bleeker spoiled it all by bursting out crying 
afresh. He had just remembered something he’d for¬ 
gotten . . . and it was up to them all to make it 
right with the girl! 

What girl? . . . Funny that. . . . Nice girl . . . 
kind girl . . . sittin’ all ’lone on bench in park. . . 
Lost her pocketbook . . . handbag . . . thing women 
carry ’n’ drop. . . . He’d picked it up . . . found it 
in his coat when he’d come in . . . meant to go out and 
look for her and give it back. Forgot all about it. 
They’d all go . . . now! 

From the table he rescued a silken purse. Lying 
amid a nest of smoking ash trays, the beaded Parisian 
thing had recalled his momentary glimpse of the girl, 
and now he held it up so they all might see it. His 
mood grew morose and the tears streamed down his^ 
cheeks ... a ridiculous exhibition of maudlin woe. 
She’d picked up his cigarette case for him . . . and 
he’d treated her like that. . . . Wasn’t right . . . 
rotten! . . . not sporting. Money in it, too . . . 
maybe she needed it. . . . Simply had to find her! 

Disgusted, Whitney snatched the bag from his hand 
and crumpled it into his own pocket. It was rotten! 
Who or what the girl might have been, made no differ¬ 
ence. Maybe she did need the contents of that purse 
... a minutely folded five-dollar bill and a few fem¬ 
inine trinkets. . . . Whitney did not examine them. 
This fool had taken the thing without even knowing 
he’d done it! But out of sight would be out of mind— 
in his present condition, and of course any search that 
night was out of the question. Whitney pictured this 
crazy assembly—half dressed—more than half fuddled, 
invading the Park with shouts and snatches of song 
. . . visioned the Night Court . . . telephone calls and 
bail . . . and a scandal when the papers came out the 




58 


THIS WOMAN 


next afternoon! Hardly! It was a mighty good thing 
he and Stratti had come. 

Anyway, he’d speak to Gram in the morning, adver¬ 
tise the purse, and see if its owner could be located. 
Bleeker made no protest. He was trying to bet the 
Janitor fifty dollars that he couldn’t stand on his head. 
Tempted by the reward, the overalled one was never¬ 
theless dubious. Too tired ... he was busy . . . had 
to look after cutie. But Waterfall shoved him away 
from her and declined to take a dare. She could and 
would stand on her head, and she’d bet anyone a 
hundred! 

Then Stratini intervened. As he might have handled 
an infant, he tossed her over his knee, and with gusto 
spanked her soundly, chuckling with delight as she 
kicked the piano bench in a tantrum of petulant fury 
and screeched vengeance upon him at the top of her 
lungs. 

“Now,” Stratini announced with the voice of au¬ 
thority, as he released the struggling girl, “the party 
is over, my children, and all of us will go home.” 

“I won't!” Waterfall flared. “You’re a beast!” 
Then she reeled into a corner, leaning against the 
wall as the room spun dizzily before her eyes. 

Hushed, stupidly uncomprehending, the others 
stared at her, not knowing whether to laugh or go to 
her rescue. Then they began to protest . . . thickly, 
peevishly, incoherently. Everybody was asking every¬ 
one else who wanted to go home and why. . . . What 
time was it, anyway? . . . What had become of the 
car. . . . Somebody ought to produce a drink! 

Stratini shook his head. Morpheus and Barleycorn 
had allied themselves. The Janitor was asleep beneath 
the table and Bleeker had disappeared into his bed¬ 
room. Whitney looked in and found him flat on his 
face across the counterpane. On the floor was a 
woman’s fur wrap, where it had fallen as Gramercy 
apparently had tried to wrap it about his bathing suit. 




THIS WOMAN 


59 


He was slobbering and mumbling . . . something, 
about going out . . . and then he succumbed com¬ 
pletely, lying with mouth wide open, his breath heavy 
with liquor. 

“Oh, you damned fool!” Whitney looked down con¬ 
temptuously ; and then, with a shrug, went back to see 
what Stratini was doing. 

Nick Vanzandt, barely able to articulate, was at¬ 
tempting to argue with him, drunkenly—insisting upon 
fixing everything up; but Stratini brushed him aside, 
declining to be pestered, and beckoned to Whitney. 

“See if their motor is downstairs,” he directed. “If 
it is, tell the chauffeur to come up and take charge of 
Bronze Buddha, and Satyr and Barleycorn. Tell him 
to drive them wherever they belong ... he can look 
after them.” 

“But what about the girls?” Whitney hesitated. 
“Little Eve’s fast asleep, and Mermaid’s ill, and Water¬ 
fall can’t even stand.” She was on the verge of hys¬ 
terics, and Whitney supported her with one arm, won¬ 
dering whether the Janitor’s snores would shatter the 
windows. 

“You know their addresses . . . these dainty 
doves?” Stratini inquired with a smile. 

“Of course,” Whitney answered, “but I don’t 
see . . 

“It is quite simple,” Stratini assured him. “You and 
I will deliver them, all safe in a taxicab, before their 
poor, dear mothers even know they’ve been out. . . .” 

“It’s after three,” Whitney doubted, consulting his 
watch, as Waterfall fell limp across his arm, bliss¬ 
fully oblivious of the disgusting disorder of her 
costume. 

“Precisely,” chuckled Stratini. “Either their par¬ 
ents won’t have come home as yet, or else they’ll have 
been asleep so long they won’t hear us arrive. We’ll 
pass the little darlings in to the servants . . . and 
then be on our way.” 




60 


THIS WOMAN 


“Can’t say I’m keen about it!” Whitney grumbled. 
“I suppose we y ll be accused of getting them beastly 
soused!” 

Stratini laughed. “You so great innocent!” he 
slapped him on the back. “It was to accomplish that 
little thing that I did what you thought was not best., 
To tell them they’d had enough would only have made 
them stubborn. That is the Rector’s method. In¬ 
stead, I put them ‘down and out.’ Now we shall take 
them home. The party is finished . . . they do not go 
on to Long Island ... to be smashed up in an auto 
wreck, or to wake up at daylight, somewhere along the 
road en dishabille. And since you and I are chape¬ 
rones, they get into no more mischief.” 

“Why, you old chameleon!” Whitney changed his 
tune. “Imagine Baptiste Stratini in the role of 
Nemesis ... a duenna to drunken debbies!” 

“I am versatile in my whims . . . and sometimes in¬ 
consistent,” Stratini smiled. “To-night, I feel very 
moral. I think I shall take a drink. Then, when the 
ladies are tucked in the taxicab, I should like to have 
a look at that purse poor Bleeker was bawling about.” 




VI. 


A silent-stepping, quiet-spoken maid gently awak¬ 
ened Carol, and respectfully announced that her bath 
was ready. She could hear the warm water running 
into a tub in the tiled room adjoining the guest cham¬ 
ber, where she had slept amid the softness of a dainty, 
lace-covered bed, an adorable nightgown of Aline’s 
caressing her flesh with silken tenderness. 

The room was bright with sunshine, filtering through 
the delicate curtains, and its tasteful furnishings were 
a delight to her awakening eyes. Yet the reality 
seemed more fantastic than her dreams of the night, 
through which she had searched without hope of suc¬ 
cess, for a missing beaded handbag and a tiny slip of 
paper. High and low she had looked for it, through a 
fantastic nightmare in which she was pursued at every 
turn by a relentless policeman, who insisted upon dress¬ 
ing her in a coarse blue frock, and prodded her with 
his club as she sewed unceasingly upon what appeared 
to be charwomen’s aprons. Again, a diabolical face 
would grin into hers, and two flaming eyes, beneath 
bushy brows, would sneer as the man made her sing 
. . . sing as she had never sung before! His soul- 
searching scrutiny hypnotized her, and although she 
felt afraid, his unwelcome domination was utterly fas¬ 
cinating. Yet always, there was the policeman . . . 
shadowy sometimes, but ever loitering near . . . like 
some blue and brass-buttoned vulture . . . watching 
her cunningly. . . . That was why she must find her 
purse! ... If she didn’t he would lead her off to an 
island ... a place of high stone walls ... of tiny 
rooms with barred windows . . . where there were lit¬ 
tle cots on which one could not rest . . . and where 

61 


62 


THIS WOMAN 


one must sew and sew and sew . . . from morning until 
night! 

It was horrible . . . more so because it was not a 
mere phantasm . . . but a memory made more poign¬ 
ant with the passing of troubled sleep. 

Yet, in the moment of greeting the morning, the un¬ 
believable superseded distorted reality, and dawning 
recollection brought consciousness of her strange 
situation. 

Outside the window, she could hear the purr of a 
high-powered motor. It flashed back the picture of a 
brilliantly lighted court-yard, of pretty little trees, 
and of dusky men in atrociously gaudy uniforms. 
Water, splashing in the bathtub, suggested a foun¬ 
tain . . . and with it came identification of the man 
whose eyes had terrified her throughout the night . . . 
the man who promised her a future so fairylike that 
the metamorphosis made Carol certain she must be 
Cinderella. 

But now she must make up her mind whether or 
not to remain with these pleasant people . . . women 
whose motives she could not doubt, yet which she could 
not quite understand. Without reason or obligation, 
other than the kindness of their hearts, they offered 
her help in attaining what she longed for above every¬ 
thing else. They pointed with powerful fingers, and 
with hands that were able to aid, to the goal she had 
sought for so long . . . and so unsuccessfully. Not 
that she failed in gratitude, but because she had found 
the world cold, she could hardly believe it all true. 
They were of New York, and Manhattan had given 
Carol the unkindest cut of all. 

Yet despite their seeming real interest, and their gem 
erous impulses, she knew she could never have passed 
their door if these folks had known the tale which her 
purse could tell. Carol could picture Mrs. R.-S. shield¬ 
ing Aline from contamination . . . staring at her with 
abhorrence, and telling the haughty Judson to turn 




THIS WOMAN 


63 


her into the street from which she had come. She could 
not blame them. There was no explanation. Her pa¬ 
tronesses regarded her filched purse as inconsequential 
trash; jet with it was gone a certificate she could ill 
afford to lose. Ironically enough, this reference 
vouched for her lack of good name. And extenuate 
as she might, it would brand her forever in the eyes 
of a possible finder. The mere fact that the paper 
was missing had not tortured her mind; but rather 
the fear as to who might discover and read it. 

But a plunge in the rose-marble tub would help her 
to think more clearly, so she slipped on a fluffy peignoir 
lying across the bed, and tucked her toes into satin 
mules. Then when her body tingled from the touch 
of a turkish towel, she slipped back into the boudoir 
and looked curiously about. Her own clothes were no¬ 
where in sight, but the maid had laid out a profusion 
of dainty things which she knew must be Aline’s. Her 
sensation was one of sheer delight as she took them up 
separately, exclaiming over each garment before she 
tried it on. She was glad the maid had not waited 
. . . she wanted to be by herself . . . and the joy of 
the feel of the fabrics made her sing in an undertone. 

Spread over the back of a chair was a fetching morn¬ 
ing frock, as chic as Aline herself, yet it might have 
been made for Carol, so wonderfully did it become her. 
A pier glass told her a story of lovely transformation, 
and the reflection seemed to be that of a care-free girl. 
Thoughtfully, she powdered her olive-tinted cheeks, and 
she could not resist the lure of a lipstick. The touch 
of an eyebrow pencil, and she smiled back at the mir¬ 
rored picture, an expression of utter wonder creeping 
into her eyes. 

She clicked the high heels of her tiny pumps, which 
fitted her to perfection, and the little shoes seemed so 
new that they might never have been worn. Then she 
made a little curtsey to the girl in the mirror, and 
looking about bewildered, wondered what next to do. 




64 


THIS WOMAN 


But Aline herself appeared, to take her in charge, 
and she greeted her guest with an intimacy which ended 
Carol’s perplexity. “I’m so glad the things fit,” she 
said, viewing the tout ensemble with evident approval. 
“Celeste took your measurements, but even when one 
has time, these ready-made shops are makeshifts.” 

Carol stared at her in surprise; then she understood. 
A maid had been sent on a shopping tour, and every¬ 
thing she had on had been purchased for her. 

“Really!” she flushed, “I don’t know how to say 
thank you.” 

“You’ve done beautifully, by looking the way you 
do!” Aline exclaimed in sincere admiration, and, throw¬ 
ing her arms about Carol, kissed her in sisterly fashion. 
“Do come along, if you’re ready. Mummy’s in the 
breakfast room and Whitney just telephoned. My 
dear, you can’t imagine what a corking idea he has! 
It’s so perfectly splendid I can’t wait to tell you 
about it!” 

Her spirits were so spontaneous that Carol caught 
them instantly as Aline slipped her arm through hers 
and led the way to the table where her mother was 
waiting. For the moment Carol forgot her purse, and 
its secret seemed very vague. Even Baptiste Stratini 
• . . and his spectre of her dreams . . . were hazy and 
unimportant . . . like the bluecoated policeman, per¬ 
sonifying her fears. Yet she felt that this background 
of wonderful happiness must be a vision too. However, 
while it lasted, she wished to enjoy the experience to 
the full ... to drink in the peace and comfort of that 
restful apartment, until the crisis she knew must come, 
should arrive to mar it all. Yet feeling so, she seated 
herself with a sense of guilt which would not down. 
For after all, she told herself, she had no right to 
deceive them ... to accept their trust and compan¬ 
ionship, under the circumstances. 

Judson served her with fruit and cream as her 
hostess examined her mail, passing most of the en- 




THIS WOMAN 


65 


velopes to a spectacled secretary. Then Mrs. R.-S. 
looked up, and smiled at Carol. “I suppose you’re 
eager to know what Whitney phoned about,” she said 
with a glance at Aline. “This child has been simply 
bursting to break the news.” 

Carol put down her spoon with a sinking sensation. 
She wondered whether the call could concern her purse 
. . . and decided that it couldn’t. In any event, she 
would know in another moment. 

“It seems that Whit and Stratti went for a walk 
last night,” Aline broke in, “and from the way his 
voice sounded over the wire, I don’t imagine that Whit 
got to bed till late. Anyway, they’d been talking about 
what we plan for you. . . .” 

“If you please, Aline,” her mother said gently, “I’d 
rather explain to Carol myself. While, of course, 
there’s no reason why she should feel so, I can under¬ 
stand that she may, or rather might, have had, a cer¬ 
tain sense of delicacy about remaining with us. . . .” 

If what was coming promised to prove unpleasant, 
Mrs. R.-S.’s manner was reassuring, and Aline broke 
in despite her mother’s injunction. . . . 

“Well, she can't have now ... if we do as Whit 
suggests!” 

Carol was silent, not knowing what to say . . . 
trembling with anxious anticipation, despite her ef¬ 
forts to sit there calmly. 

“Whitney’s really very clever,” Mrs. R.-S. went on, 
“a lawyer, you know . . . and, I’m told, quite a para¬ 
dox ... a really successful, yet honest one. It seems 
that he doesn’t think Stratti should have all the credit 
for discovering you, and suggests that we form a part¬ 
nership ... an association of mentors . . . until you 
are fully launched on an operatic career.” 

Carol smiled. “Your confidence is as generous as 
your kindness,” she said in deprecation of her own 
worthiness. “I only wish I deserved it.” 

“You mustn’t have that idea,” Mrs. R.-S. reproved. 




66 


THIS WOMAN 


“You see Stratti is really a wonder in a musical way. 
He’s not given to chance opinions when it comes to 
singing, and I’m sure he would not make a promise 
he felt he might not fulfill. We all believe in him . . . 
implicitly. But while we’re all broad-minded, we can’t 
afford to forget that Stratti’s a man of the world . . . 
and you are a charming girl. And Whitney, you see, 
is the nephew of the Reverend Doctor Duane. . . .” 

“I’ve read some of his sermons,” Carol said with a 
smile, and the faintest trace of amusement came into 
her troubled eyes. “He probably wouldn’t approve of 
me ... if he knew how I came to be here. . . .” She 
might have said more, and meant to . . . but some¬ 
thing within her called halt. 

“Oh, the Rector doesn’t really matter,” Aline inter¬ 
rupted. “It’s your own contentment we’re thinking 
about. The dominie makes me wild-eyed once in a 
while!” 

“I wish you wouldn’t criticize, my dear,” Mrs. R.-S. 
objected. “Carol will doubtless appraise the Rector for 
herself in due time. . . . Meanwhile, none of us wish 
you to consider yourself under the slightest obligation 
to us. We want you to feel that what we may do for 
you is purely a business arrangement . . . prompted 
on our part by an interest in opera as well as a liking 
for you. In financing your studies, Whitney suggests 
that we merely lend you the money ... to be paid 
back to us when your earnings warrant it.” 

“If they ever do!” Carol laughed . . . bitterly . . . 
yet keenly interested in the proposed plan. 

“Oh, they will!” Mrs. R.-S. prophesied confidently. 
“Of course, it will not be easy. You will have to work 
very hard, and at times I’m afraid you will find Stratti 
exasperating. But the man’s really a marvel . . . and 
personally delightful, when he isn’t on one of his tan¬ 
trums against intolerance. However, Whitney suggests 
that we form a sort of stock company, and that all of 
us shall be shareholders. . . 




THIS WOMAN 


67 


“I’m glad you’re not risking your all in the hope of 
tremendous profits!” Carol said nervously. 

“Naturally,” Mrs. R.-S. assured her without ostenta¬ 
tion, “the investment we’ll make will not prove pinch¬ 
ing . . . yet the thought of our advancing substantial 
sums of money might embarrass you under other 
conditions.” 

“It would,” Carol admitted. “And I’m not sure that 
it won’t . . . anyway.” 

“Why?” asked Mrs. R.-S. “Whitney’s coming this 
afternoon to lay it all before us. He wants to incor¬ 
porate you. . . .” 

“Incorporate me?” Carol exclaimed incredulously. 
“I thought corporations had to do with stocks and 
steel, and coal and things . . . that they were sordid 
and soulless, and scandalously rich. . . 

“Some are notoriously poor . . . from the stand¬ 
point of dividends,” Mrs. R.-S. laughed. “I’ve learned, 
that to my sorrow. But the idea is that I shall esti¬ 
mate your expenses for the next two years . . . the 
cost of your gowns and your hats and your mainte¬ 
nance . . . everything you will need . . . plus the 
cost of your training . . . exclusive of Stratti, of 
course. We pay in the total capital, and Stratti will 
manage the corporation. If he doesn’t make good . . . 
he loses his job. . . 

“And you lose your money,” Carol reminded her. 
“I lose my self-respect.” 

“Nonsense!” protested Aline. “You’re going to put 
it over! . . . and I’m going to take twenty shares in 
you! I’ve money enough of my own, and Mummy says 
I may.” 

The tears came to Carol’s eyes, and Aline sprang up 
from her chair. “Oh, you mustn’t feel that way!” she 
said sympathetically. “Think what fun it will be, 
and what a thrill for me, when you’re a famous star 
and I can come to your dressing room!” 

“Seriously,” Mrs. R.-S. continued, “I favor the ar- 




68 


THIS WOMAN 


rangement. It will give you a greater feeling of in¬ 
dependence to know that some day you can buy back 
the stock for which we subscribe. We will have had 
interest on our money, so you will owe us nothing . . . 
and we will be amply repaid when we hear you sing at 
the Knickerbocker.” 

“I hardly know what to say,” Carol peered into her 
coffee, “much as I appreciate all that you wish to do. 
It isn’t merely that you are willing to invest in me . . . 
to guarantee my future as it were, . . . it’s the fact 
that you are willing to associate with me ... to let 
me enjoy Aline’s friendship . . . since I understand 
that you mean me to live with you.” For a moment 
she paused, and a flush crept over her features. “You 
know nothing of me. I may be unspeakable. . . .” 

“Oh, Carol!” mocked Aline. “Have you a past . . . 
really ?” 

“My dear child!” Mrs. R.-S. chided, “I am a woman 
of the world, and Stratti is nobody’s booby. I don’t 
imagine you’ll contaminate my precious, precocious 
daughter, and I hope your earnest industry will be 
an example to her.” 

She was laughing behind the serious look in her eyes, 
and Aline made a little face at her mother. But Carol 
was not smiling, although she wiped the tears from her 
cheeks and looked at the two very seriously. 

“If you mean what you say, in the spirit I think you 
do,” she said to Mrs. R.-S., “I’ll be only too glad to 
accept the conditions . . . and I’ll be the happiest 
girl who ever found true friends. There are some things 
I’d rather not speak about . . . some things I’d like 
to forget . . . but I can’t believe you’d blame me if 
I told the whole truth. . . .” 

“It isn’t necessary,” Mrs. R.-S. said. “I’m rather a 
reader of character, and I’m willing to take you on 
faith. Stratti will be, too, so far as the past is con¬ 
cerned, but your future will depend upon what you do 
from now on.” 





THIS WOMAN 


69 


“Oh, I’ll work!” Carol pledged eagerly, “I’ll try with 
all that’s in me ... be a slave to my studies . . . and 
if I do fail, it won’t be for any lack of wanting to 
win!” 

“So that’s that!” snapped Aline practically. “Now 
that we’re through with business, come on into my room 
and we’ll plan out a regular shopping tour!” 

“Oh, by the way,” Mrs. R.-S. recalled, as they arose 
from the table, “Whitney said something about seeing 
Gramercy ... at a rather racy party he had in his 
rooms last night. In view of the way he left here, 
and from all that I hear of his doings, I rather think 
poor Gram is riding for a fall. . . .” 

“A Fool and his Honey gather no orange blossoms 
. . . wedding ones, I mean,” Aline observed with a 
grimace. “Gramercy’s simply daffy over vacuum- 
flappers !” 

Mrs. R.-S. smiled with understanding of her daugh¬ 
ter’s mood. “I’m sure you’re sufficiently vacuous, 
dear: don’t try to outrival them! But it seems that 
Gramercy picked up a woman’s purse somewhere or 
other. I believe you mentioned losing yours,” she 
turned to Carol. “Whit thought perhaps . . .” 

“But it couldn’t be hers, Mummy dear!” Aline re¬ 
membered suddenly. “Gram caved in and went home 
before Carol arrived.” 

“That’s true,” Mrs. R.-S. agreed, “I’d forgotten. 
Whitney, no doubt, did too.” 




VII. 


“Scotch or oolong, or pekoe or gin? Which shah 
it be, old dear?” Aline inquired, arching her penciled 
eyebrows. 

Gramercy Bleeker struck a mock-dramatic attitude 
beside the tea-wagon and pretended to sing: “My 
Bonnie lies over the ocean. . . . Oh, bring back my 
Bonnie to me . . . hee-ee!” 

“She’s yours!” grinned Aline and passed him the 
decanter. “Gram, you’re positively hopeless. Now 
before you get all fuddled again, do give an account of 
yourself.” 

“No can do!” he protested. “Might shock pretty 
little ears, and might tend to incriminate and degrade 
me, as our legal friend Whitney would say ... or 
has he been saying, perhaps?” 

“Certainly not!” Aline denied. “Only he hinted 
over the ’phone. . . 

“Oh, he did, did he?” chuckled Bleeker. “Then I 
shall ask him what I’ve been doing. No doubt he 
knows. But on the level, Aline, I didn’t know I was 
butting in on a business meeting. I hope you’ll for¬ 
give me, Miss Drayton.” 

“I’m sure there’s nothing to forgive,” Carol replied, 
rather wishing that she could slip away without seem¬ 
ing rude. Bleeker was the man she had seen in the 
park. She recognized him the moment he entered the 
room, and with that recognition came a fresh feeling 
of panic. No doubt he had picked up her purse, and 
naturally enough, he would have examined it. Now, if 
he remembered her—if his scrambled senses could piece 
out the puzzle-picture of the girl he had seen on the 
bench—she was in for a decidedly bad quarter of an 
70 


THIS WOMAN 


71 


hour. She dreaded it . . . but even more, she drew 
back from what must follow. 

“That’s fine of you,” Bleeker said genuinely. “I’m 
glad you weren’t here last night in time to see me do a 
fade-out—like a villain in a society screen atrocity. 
But I only came back this afternoon to make amends 
to Aline and her mother. . . .” 

“And you promptly start out to get mellow again 1” 
Aline accused, banteringly. “What’s all this business 
about you’re picking pockets and stealing some poor 
girl’s handbag?” 

Carol bit her lip, and a flush tinted her dark cheeks 
as she dropped her eyes to her teacup, not daring to 
meet Bleeker’s. Much as she wished that bag back, and 
much as she longed to know who had found what was 
in it, she trembled as she waited for him to answer. 
And he was deliberately long about doing it. 

“Oh, that f" he said to gain time, a smile coming into 
his eyes. “The one I was going to auction off or some¬ 
thing . . . ?” 

Carol’s fingers clenched convulsively. She somehow 
felt that she could not bear his making sport of her 
property . . . his joking about a thing which meant 
so much to her. But with an effort she stifled a desire 
to scream, and sat tense and silent as Bleeker struck 
a match and lit a cigarette. 

“I’m afraid, my dear, I shall have to refer your cues- 
tion to my attorney,” he said with pretended serious¬ 
ness. “I retain Whit for just that purpose. By the 
way, where is he?” 

“Telephoned to say he was on the way uptown,” 
Aline explained. “And mother’s off in the motor; she’s 
going to stop for Stratini on her way back.” 

“Stratti coming too? Thought he was busy as a lit¬ 
tle bee smoothing or maybe ruffling his songbirds’ 
feathers.” 

“So he is. Mother’s going to pick him up at the 




72 


THIS WOMAN 


Opera House . . . but of course you didn’t know that 
his latest songbird’s here!” 

“Really?” Bleeker asked, with an incredulous glance 
at Carol. “Miss Drayton looks too charmingly human 
to be a prima donna. They’re all so infernally upstage 
and head over heels in love with themselves.” 

“Perhaps I am too!” Carol laughed mellifluously. 
There was almost a joyous note of relief in her tone. 
Either the man did not know her, or else he deter¬ 
mined to keep his own counsel . . . for the present at 
least. Yet it was Whitney Duane who had phoned 
about the handbag, and evidently Duane had it in his 
possession. So the ordeal was not over, although she 
had a respite. 

“Oh, Fm sure you’re not . . . not even as crazy 
about yourself as Aline is. . . . Anyway, since I’m 
here . . . Success!” And he drained his glass. 

“That’s the deoch and doris,” Aline retaliated, 
“until Mummy and Stratti come at least. Then, per¬ 
haps, if you’re a good little lamb, Whitney’ll fleece you 
by letting you buy some nice stock . . . stock in Miss 
Drayton’s company . . .” 

“Oh, please!” protested Carol, and Aline was in¬ 
stantly sorry. 

“He hasn’t an idea what I mean,” she said, intend¬ 
ing to put Carol at her ease and cover up her faux pas. 
“What’s more, I don’t intend to tell him,” she added 
witl a wink, and a further effort at camouflage. “You 
see " thought he might pay to promote some of Whit- 
ney’r schemes with the proceeds of his pickpocketing— 
and thus do proper penance for his sins.” 

Bleeker grinned and had a facetious retort on the 
tip of his tongue when he caught a glimpse of the half- 
hidden agony in Carol’s eyes. He had not quite under¬ 
stood what Aline set out to say in thoughtless jest, 
but he instantly sensed that the subject must be dis¬ 
tasteful to Carol. And at once he changed the subject 
so skillfully that even Carol herself was not aware 




THIS WOMAN 


73 


that he did so intentionally . . . because he had read 
the distress which signaled from her evident emotion. 
Yet despite the fact that he rattled on like a good- 
natured lunatic, principally teasing Aline, he was won¬ 
dering what in the devil ailed the other girl. 

Rather stunning, he thought her . . . peach of a girl, 
in fact . . . somehow reminded him of someone he’d 
seen before . . . but he couldn’t place her, and it 
didn’t seem very likely that he’d ever met her, if she 
was an opera singer. Then the mantle clock chimed 
five. 

“Guess I’d better toddle, old top,” he said to Aline. 
“Offer my humble regrets to your mother, and try to 
forgive my foolishness . . . won’t you?” 

“I don’t think so . . . unless you ’fess up about the 
handbag,” she shook her head, returning to that sub¬ 
ject again because she saw it embarrassed him . . . 
without the slightest knowledge that she was making 
Carol endure the most exquisite torture. 

Then, with' sudden daring ... a feeling that the 
plunge was better by far than waiting . . . Carol took 
her cue from the care-free Aline, and just as she had 
intended, disarmed Bleeker completely. 

“But really,” she said with a whimsical smile, “don’t 
you think you’re unfair to keep us guessing? You see 
I lost a purse myself last evening . . . and in it was 
something I prized, very, very highly.” 

“Mean it ?” asked Bleeker, really concerned and sym¬ 
pathetic. “I’m sorry!” . . . He had spoken like that 
in the park . . . when Carol was afraid he was going 
to sit down. . . . “But the thing I’m sorry about is 
the fact that it couldn’t be yours. ...” 

“Why couldn’t it?” Carol persisted, taking unfair 
advantage of his effort at gallantry, just a moment 
before. 

“Why, because . . . well, I suppose it could be,” he 
admitted, puzzled. Hang it! If the turn of the con- 





74 


THIS WOMAN 


versation annoyed the woman, why on earth did she 
bring it up again ? However, in desperation, he blurted 
out the truth. “I don’t know where I got hold of it, 
and I don’t recall what was in it. I think Whit, or 
maybe Stratti, took it away from me. . . .” 

“Signor Stratini . . . examined it?” Carol ex¬ 
claimed, and both Bleeker and Aline stared at her, 
somewhat surprised. 

“Oh, Stratti’s not such a pirate as he looks!” Aline 
assured her. “If it is yours, it’s much safer in Stratti’s 
hands than even in Whitney’s . . . but that must be 
our counsel now . . .” as she heard him in the hallway. 
. . . “Just a moment, and I’ll bring him. . . .” 

Carol wanted to stop her ... to follow . . . any¬ 
thing to prevent her being alone with the man who 
was now regarding her with guarded but curious in¬ 
terest. Instinctively, she felt that he was associating 
her with that park bench . . . that, given time, his 
memory would be certain to identify her. But Aline 
was gone, wanting a word with Whitney before he 
entered the room ... to prime him to twit Bleeker 
about buying some stock that had nothing to do with 
Carol, and thus preserve the secret of their little 
corporation. 

“Of course you weren’t serious?” Bleeker turned 
to her, a curious expression in his narrowed eyes. 
“I did look inside the thing, but I really don’t 
remember. . . .” 

He hesitated, as though trying his best to recall the 
bag’s contents, and Carol, leaning forward, gazed at 
him steadily. He felt the intensity of her look, and 
raised his brows questioningly. “I wonder,” he specu¬ 
lated in a subdued tone, “whether, for any reason, 
you’d rather I didn't . . .” He hesitated, looking to¬ 
ward the doorway as Whitney came in with Aline, and 
purposely did not finish the sentence. 

“I’d like it ever so much ... if you . . . couldn't!" 
Carol whispered to him, hardly understanding why she 




THIS WOMAN 


75 


took such a course . . . just why she trusted him. 
Yet she did. 

“Right!” Bleeker agreed with a smile. “My status 
is that of a victim of total amnesia!” 

But Aline had seized upon the purse as Whitney’s 
entrance cue, and now she laughingly told him of 
Bleeker’s confusion, and saucily insisted that Whitney 
relate in detail the whole disgraceful story. “I’m 
honestly afraid to let him into the house!” she rattled 
on with an excited effort to seem utterly innocuous. 
“If you don’t explain at once, I shall ’phone for a 
private detective before the man takes my jewels.” 

“You tell ’em, Whit,” Bleeker grinned, and to the 
lawyer’s amazement, made an unmistakable gesture 
cautioning silence. “I’ve just been saying to Miss 
Drayton that none of us have the faintest idea . . .” 

But Whitney did not seem to catch the signal, or else 
misinterpreted its meaning. “Of course you haven’t 
. . . and never did have . . . about anything!” he ar¬ 
raigned his friend with pretended contempt. “But as 
your attorney, I won’t give you away. I’m here to 
protect you, my boy.” 

“Thanks!” breathed Bleeker, and then gave up the 
attempt to head Whitney off. It was too late in any 
event, for reaching into his pocket, Whitney produced 
the bag Carol had lost. 

If he saw the color fade from her face, he gave no 
outward sign of it, as he handed the bit of beaded silk 
to Aline; yet Bleeker knew in an instant that the purse 
was Carol’s and now he was almost certain . . . yes, 
sir, he was sure . . . that the girl at the tea-wagon 
was the one in the park. 

And as Aline handed the bag to her, and she took it 
reluctantly, Carol was fully aware of what Bleeker 
knew. For an instant she wished she had not appealed 
to him . . . she was almost on the verge of telling the 
three the truth . . . then something within her held 




76 


THIS WOMAN 


her back, and, pulling the tasseled cord, she dumped 
the contents of the bag out into her lap. 

A wadded handkerchief ... a powder compact. A 
little shake, and a latchkey released itself from the 
slightly torn lining. Then a crumpled banknote flut¬ 
tered to the floor. Not knowing whether the currency 
was wrapped about something secret . . . whether it 
hid some evidence that Miss Drayton wished to conceal, 
Bleeker could not surmise; but he quickly bent to the 
rug and recovered it. 

“My reward?” he asked meaningly, wondering what 
she would answer. “May the finder keep the money?” 
If she assented the others need not see whatever it 
might mask. 

Carol’s fingers were unsteady as she shook the bag 
again without result, and then looked quickly into its 
corners. There was nothing else. Whoever had seen 
it . . . whoever had it . . . the thing she wanted . . . 
the thing she feared . . . was gone. And then she 
laughed as she gathered the various articles from her 
lap and dropped them carelessly back where she had 
found them. 

“I’m afraid I can’t decide such a momentous ques¬ 
tion,” she smiled at Bleeker. “You see . . . the bag 
isn’t mine.” 

She could have bitten her tongue for that lie . . . 
yet she could not admit its ownership . . . much aa 
she hated herself when it dawned upon her what Bleeker 
might suspect. Yet before she could even appeal to 
him with a look, or thank him with a half-perceptible 
nod, Mrs. R.-S. and Stratini came into the room. 

“Ah, so!” laughed the impresario, throwing back his 
head and swelling his great chest as he bellowed with 
merriment. “Here is our little charter member of Sir 
Oliver’s Lodge! Wasn’t that what you said he be¬ 
longed to, eh, Whitney, my boy . . . this so very dead 
to the world young man, who bobs up again so 
serenely?” 




THIS WOMAN 


n 


“We’re trying to solve the mystery of what he’s been 
doing . . . where he was and who he saw, while in the 
other world!” Aline continued her taunting, as she 
poured her mother a cup of tea. “The question is, 
i who was the lovely lady . . . ?” 

“The lovely lady!” chuckled Stratini. “My dear, 
there were ever so many, blonde and bobbed, and bold 
and bad ... so bad that I had to spank one!” 

“Oh, I say!” Bleeker protested. “Really, that’s not 
fair ... or true, is it?” 

“Ah, never fear!” Stratini patted his shoulder. 
“Stratini is a great bear, but he is not what you call 
the cad! So I will spare your blushes . . . and the 
ladies shall be nameless . . . even though we still look 
for the little Cinderella whose purse the Fairy Prince 
is so distracted about. Come, my dears . . . you have 
searched its contents?” he turned to the three women 
with an appealing gesture, his eyes twinkling, despite 
their feigned seriousness. “It is not yours, my dear 
hostess? Nor yours, my little ugly sister . . . and 
then, if it is not yours , my dear . . .” he glanced with 
lightning-like interrogation at Carol , . . “then we 
are all at sea again!” 

“It wasn’t yours, of course?” Mrs. R.-S. asked Carol. 
“What a pity!” 

Yet Carol’s cheeks burned, and she felt as though 
she would faint, as she shook her head and faintly 
answered “No.” 

“Ah . . . good!” Stratini exclaimed, rubbing his- 
hands, as though relieved that such was the denoue¬ 
ment. “I cannot have my little songbird enmeshed in 
romance so soon . . . especially with this Lothario of 
a Bleeker! But ... all of you . . . what say? Shall 
we let him become a member of our little corporation 
. . . eh?” 

“Stratti, do you think . . . ?” Mrs. R.-S. hesitated, 
fearing that Carol might be humiliated by the admis¬ 
sion of a stranger. 




78 


THIS WOMAN 


“But of course I think!” Stratini thundered. “In 
he shall come. ... I like him ... he is such a great 
fool! Then Whitney shall read his stupid papers to 
us, and we shall pay up very promptly like good busi¬ 
ness people. . . . After that, whether you like it or 
not, I shall have a little private conversation with my 
pupil ... in another room.” 

No one spoke. The little clock struck the quarter 
hour, and Carol sighed, faintly. 

“So!” Stratini announced with a deal of self-satis¬ 
faction. “It is unanimous. It is arranged. Make 
haste with your reading, Whitney . . . and, if you 
are not utterly without the manners of a well brought- 
up young lady, give me an oh, so very —large drink 
of cognac, my charming Aline!” 




VIII. 


In the music room, Stratini closed the door softly, 
and then for a moment stared fixedly at Carol. She 
shrank from the man, half in fear, half in guilt, not 
certain whether his scrutiny was merely a matter of 
mood or whether something more serious lay beneath it. 

“This thing you have lost,” he said at last, “this 
purse or whatever it is. Does it really make such a 
difference?” 

“No,” said Carol, biting her lip. “It does not mat¬ 
ter . . . now.” 

“Bien!” he smiled at her. “Then we have a fair ex¬ 
change, since you have found the purse of Fortunatus 
in its stead. We shall forget trifles. A pretty and 
talented woman need never be annoyed over the loss of 
anything less than her reputation . . . and even that 
appears to have its consolations . . . sometimes.” 

“I wonder,” Carol murmured, looking out of the 
window at the sunset gilding a tower, white and tall, a 
tower indelibly stamped on her mind as a part of the 
maze of Times Square. And Stratini seemed to read 
her thoughts like a book. 

“Many an actress would give ten years of her future 
for a real past!” he reminded her. “To a press agent 
such a thing is a godsend. But do not take me too 
seriously. Stage folk are habitually maligned by the 
public and the pharisees. We are assumed to be un¬ 
speakable. So the dear public pays its tainted coin to 
look at our tainted tinsel. It feels deliciously wicked 
when it whispers scandal about us. Of course, it is 
unfair . . . but to the talented, nothing really matters 
but art . . . art and the box office!” 

“You’re wrong!” Carol retorted, ignoring his face- 
79 


80 


THIS WOMAN 


tiousness. “It always matters to a woman! She may 
pretend it dosn’t, but if she does, she’s only lying to 
the world and trying to deceive herself. It can’t help 
but hurt ... to be misjudged.” 

Stratini saw that the girl was deeply stirred, and 
something akin to sympathy shone in his eyes; but only 
for a moment, and a frown crossed his forehead as he 
screwed his monocle into his eye, and paced thought¬ 
fully about the room, his hands clasped behind him. 
Carol remained silent, wrapped in her thoughts, as she 
stared across the roofs of adjoining apartment build¬ 
ings toward the western sky where the lights on Broad¬ 
way were beginning to tint the clouds. 

It was growing dark and Judson had lighted the 
candles in their silver sconces on the refectory table, a 
touch which transformed the room and made it softly 
somber, like some old-world monastery chamber. 
Seated upon a cloister bench, with his back to the 
flickering tapers, Stratini might have been some old- 
school diplomat or perhaps a great seigneur, the faint 
light glinting on his silvery hair and casting sardonic 
shadows across his features. A tiny, dancing candle- 
beam reflected its brightness in his single lens, and 
gave a curious squint to his eye, as he calmly regarded 
Carol, and stuffed a cigarette into his long holder. 

“Tell me!” he demanded abruptly, as he struck a 
match, “just what is your little game?” 

Startled, indignant, yet half terrified, Carol turned 
and faced him. “My game?” she repeated challeng- 
ingly. “What is yours?” 

There was defiance in her attitude, subdued fury, 
and a determination to match her wits against him 
... or perhaps to confess and throw herself upon his 
mercy if he had found what was in her bag, and meant 
to tax her with it. 

“Hum!” he grunted, shaking his head sagely. “As I 
expected. You are clever and calculating, but you 
cannot deceive me so easily.” For a moment he puffed 




THIS WOMAN 


81 


at the cigarette, fixing her with his gaze. Then his 
shoulders stiffened, and he accused her directly. 

“Last night, you planted yourself in the entrance 
court deliberately. It was a trick to draw my atten¬ 
tion ... to intrigue me with your voice. . . .” 

“It wasn’t!” she cried, angry, yet hurt. “I didn’t 
know you were here . . . how could I? I didn’t even 
know who lived in this house ... it was just like all 
the others, up and down the street.” Then her tone 
grew bitter and her furious words came more quickly. 
“You say I am calcvlatmg ! How can I know that you 
haven’t some sinister purpose in this strange proceed¬ 
ing of incorporating me. How do I know you can do 
what you claim, and that I haven’t signed away my 
very . . .” 

“Enough!” he stopped her with a gesture. “Enough 
of the dramatics! Do I look so stupid that you hope 
to pull the wool over my eyes? I—Stratini—upon 
whom every sort and condition of female trickster has 
tried to practice her wiles in vain! You vaguely create 
the atmosphere of a past too painful to relate. Are 
you trying to pique my curiosity or stir my sympathy? 
You waste time! So I have brought you here where we 
can be alone . . . where you can admit the whole truth 
to me . . . or I will tell it to you!” 

She gasped. Then he did know! Of course. It 
would be Stratini who had taken that slip from her 
handbag . . . perhaps it was even now in his pocket. 
Denial would be worse than useless—fruitlessly absurd. 

“I understand,” she said resignedly, hanging her 
head, “you need not go on. You are going to be just 
like the others . . . cruel, hypocritical. . . .” 

“God forbid!” he broke in fervently, with a gesture 
of disgust. 

“Oh, don’t deny it! I know. Like Shylock, you will 
lend to me, but you want to be repaid . . . you want 
your poimd of flesh!” 

“Ugh!” he pretended revulsion. “I am not a canni- 




82 


THIS WOMAN 


bal . . . nor a butcher. But let us have not so much 
of the melodrama, and a little more frankness, please. 
There are many charming ladies who would gladly be 
very nice to me . . . and I have learned that many 
little peaches are much too green to be wholesome. 
You are quite safe ... so long as you do not try to 
play Delilah with me. I am not in need of the services 
of a pretty barber, but if you do not watch out, I shall 
pull the whole temple down about your little ears!” 

“It can do no more than crush me,” she half sobbed 
in her disappointment, yet rage glittered through the 
tears which welled from her eyes. 

“Now just a minute!” he restrained her. “Even Eve 
claimed the man was guilty . . . but do not fear . . . 
I will not devour your apple and leave you only the 
core. Yet you are quite charming . . . almost re¬ 
sourceful in your appeal. Were I less experienced, I 
might believe you innocent . . . but there must be no 
deception between us. I mean to know your story if I 
have to wring it from you!” 

She threw back her head and shot him a glance of 
disdain, her fingers twisting her handkerchief nervously. 

“This little matter of incorporation was a happy, 
thought,” he went on calculatingly. “The publicity 
will help . . . otherwise, it is nonsense! Perhaps I am 
not without sin, but I am without scruple ... in some 
things. Yet Mrs. Rhinebeck-Sturdevant is my dearest 
friend. And because I know what I know, I will not 
permit you to remain in her house, nor will I consent to 
your association with her daughter.” 

He arose, with a sneering smile on his face, and 
dropping his monocle, took a menacing step toward 
Carol. “But I will agree to take this little sparrow 
under my own protecting wing. . . .” 

With flashing eyes and clenched fists, Carol faced 
him . . . her body trembling and her heart pounding 
madly. There was no fear in her face . . . only fury 
. . . and Stratini shrugged with a mocking leer. 




THIS WOMAN 


83 


“You would deny me their chaperonage and suggest 
a more intimate, a more vile association . . . simply 
because you accept as fact a malicious echo of my mis¬ 
fortune. . . Her voice was agonized, and it broke 
helplessly. She could not go on. 

“Don’t lie to me!” he commanded sharply. 

“I’m not lying!” she hurled back at him, drawing 
away that he might not touch her . . . that his face 
might not be so hideously close to hers. “Yet if I told 
you the truth, you wouldn’t believe me. What chance 
has a woman who has been convicted! You know she 
hasn’t any! And because you know that, you offer all 
that I long for in exchange-” 

“Shall we say for—a kiss?” he asked derisively, 
touching his lips with his finger tips to illustrate the 
lightness of his condition. 

A tortured cry burst from her, as she watched him, 
fascinated—goaded beyond endurance by his expres¬ 
sion, more studiedly insulting than his words. “Oh!” 
she screamed, her face twitching convulsively, “I never 
knew before what it meant to want to kill!” And dash¬ 
ing across the room, she caught up a candlestick, mas¬ 
sively ornate, and lethal in the maddened grasp of her 
fingers. 

He only laughed, and adjusted his eye-glass with 
complacent self-control. 

“Not bad,” he observed, “you bluff very nicely.” 

“O, God!” she cried out in agony. “It would be 
worth eternal damnation to kill a snake like you!” 

Insanely, her voice rang out in the stillness of the 
room, and with a movement of quick, uncontrolled pas¬ 
sion, she hurled the heavy silver sconce at his head. A 
crash ... a tinkling of glass, as it smashed into a 
mirror . . . and then Stratini chuckled. With ever so 
slight a movement, he had stepped aside and stood 
staring at her contemptuously, his arms calmly folded. 

“I could choke you with my bare hands!” Her 
scream startled Mrs. R.-S. as she stepped through the 






84 


THIS WOMAN 


door, perturbed at the sounds that had reached her 
in the adjoining room. 

“Stratti 1” she gasped in alarm, as Aline peered over 
her shoulder, and Bleeker and Whitney came quickly 
after them. But Stratini only made them an exagger¬ 
ated bow. 

“What on earth have you done?” Aline demanded. 
“I’ll say you’re the limit!” 

Carol tried to speak, but the words would not come, 
and she staggered toward Mrs. R.-S. with her hands 
stretched out in mute appeal, seeking her protection. 

“Of course you must have had some purpose,” Mrs. 
R.-S. turned to Stratini severely, “but really the child’s 
too nervous . . . can’t you see you’ve broken her 
heart!” 

“Not at all, my dear Eleanore!” Stratini twirled his 
mustache. “There is nothing whatever broken except 
a looking-glass. I merely wished to find out whether 
she could express intense emotion. So I deliberately 
insulted her ... to see whether she could act.” 

He paused, and nodded approvingly. “It is quite 
all right . . . she can!” 





IX. 


The tittle-tattle weeklies and the vividly yellow 
dailies shrieked with delight at Carol’s incorporation. 
Veiled insinuations, intended to be witty, and factless 
hallucinations, spicy and utterly silly, filled column 
after column; editorials ranged from ridicule to right¬ 
eous indignation. From the Battery to the Bronx, on 
the Drive and on Avenue A, the sensational story was 
read; and gossip carried it on, variously. 

Within a week it was the topic of discussion in tea¬ 
rooms, lunch-rooms and drawing-rooms, to say nothing 
of those theatrical anterooms where Carol had quite 
lately cooled her heels. With differing emotions, the 
news was devoured by scrubwomen and stenographers, 
debutantes, dowagers and demimonde. Superior sales¬ 
ladies smiled; elevator and telephone operators gaped 
and gossiped; cloak-and-suit mannequins, milliners and 
manicure maids evolved a theory peculiarly their own. 
Broadway, sophisticated, yet surprised, scented a 
shrewd press agent. Its more sordid satellites sus¬ 
pected something else; and those who admitted them¬ 
selves in society, snickered and uttered scintillating 
remarks. Mrs. Grundy, with uplifted nose and lev¬ 
eled lorgnon, sniffed scandal; a few well-bred persons 
perused the news without comment and lifted their eye¬ 
brows slightly. They were used to the vagaries of 
Baptiste Stratini and a little amazed at the approval 
of Mrs. Rhinebeck-Sturdevant. 

Whitney Duane’s secretary grew weary of telling 
newspaper men that Mr. Duane was engaged. Judson 
almost lost his poise from turning importunate sob- 
sisters from the Park Avenue apartment door. Bap¬ 
tiste Stratini threatened physical violence if a single 

85 


86 


THIS WOMAN 


reporter gained admittance to his sanctum, and thus 
added fuel to the flames. Perhaps the most perturbed 
of all was the Reverend Gouverneur Duane. After 
pondering over his duty in the matter, he declined to 
write a Special Sunday Sermon on the subject, despite 
the enthusiastically urgent request of an influential 
editor who was willing to publish the minister’s picture 
and pay a fat price for the discourse. There were 
reasons, the Doctor assured him regretfully—rather 
weighty reasons—why he felt it best to refuse; yet it 
grieved him sorely not to see his way to comply. 

A tiny legal notice in the business columns of the 
Times started it all. In terse, conventional terms, it 
stated a most unconventional project, and appended 
an imposing list of names. That no one had ever heard 
of Carol Drayton only tended to make the brief an¬ 
nouncement more intriguing, for if the world loves any 
type of lunatic more than it does a lover, that object 
of adoration is a charming Cinderella. Morons may 
become magnates and motormen rise to be mayors, and 
only the politicians pry into their personal history; 
but when a kitchen mechanic claims the crystal slipper, 
the public is eager to know the why and the wherefore. 
She may be frankly and frightfully wicked, or of the 
genus genteel , but she cannot hope to be a half-way 
heroine. 

And such was the idol presented by Carol’s sponsors. 
Interviews were denied and information was lacking, 
so, finding no fault with the woman, Manhattan sus¬ 
pected the worst. At his clubs, Gramercy Bleeker had 
the notice poked under his nose and found himself face¬ 
tiously accused of infamous intentions. Goldfish-ladies, 
chorus-ladies, ladies with haughty mothers and ladies 
whose mothers were myths, .took him to task and 
demanded to know how come? Accused of undue par¬ 
tiality, he chuckled and then evaded; grew peevish, and 
finally told them all to go to hell. 

Aline was called to her telephone twenty times in an 




THIS WOMAN 


87 


hour. Purringly persuasive voices begged her to reveal 
the delicious secret in strictest confidence; but her 
mother’s aloof reticence furnished the daughter’s cue, 
and the aristocratic debby-cats who were simply dying 
of curiosity, found their thirst for information more 
difficult to quench than a lingering longing for cock¬ 
tails. 

Carol, cowering inwardly, stared at the varied 
accounts in a sort of hopeless daze. The silly inven¬ 
tion with which bare facts were invested proved dis¬ 
tasteful enough, but the appearance of each new 
afternoon edition found her tortured lest some inquir¬ 
ing reporter should have stumbled upon a clew which 
would unearth the secret she had thus far hidden. For 
days she was utterly miserable. She dreaded the few 
steps from the street door of the apartment house to 
the waiting R.-S. limousine. Only the combined efforts 
of a special policeman and a phalanx of hallboys served 
to keep back the swarm of camera-men who hovered 
about the entrance hoping for her apperance. When 
she crossed a sidewalk on Fifth Avenue or entered a 
modiste’s in the Fifties, motion-picture machines 
turned their cranks and the curious craned their necks. 
Women with pads and pencils made hasty notes of her 
costumes, and bewildered carriage attendants barred 
the way to the persistent when Carol had passed inside. 

A cinema queen or a stage celebrity would have wel¬ 
comed such publicity. Yet Carol shrank from it as 
from a plague. It galled her not to be able to glory 
in the limelight for which she had longed, even though 
it was premature and as yet unearned. The stares of 
the crowds made her tremble. Any pair of eyes might 
recognize her, and the most well-meant inquiry might 
unmask what she hoped to conceal. Perhaps, when suc¬ 
cess should come, what had happened would not matter 
. . . although Carol was far from sanguine on that 
score. In her philosophy, it would always matter . . . 




88 


THIS WOMAN 


and now, its discovery would shatter all her dreams of 
the future. 

Of that she had not the slightest doubt. Broad in 
her views as was Mrs. R.-S., she could not fairly be 
expected to condone the truth if called upon to sponsor 
it. Once discovered Carol would be powerless to pre¬ 
vent its publication, and she would be equally helpless 
to frame a satisfactory answer. Each successive ordeal 
made her position more intolerable, and she felt that 
Mrs. R.-S. must resent even the present and unavoidable 
notoriety. Naturally, she appreciated its cause, but 
she could not be expected to enjoy the journalistic 
drivel which linked her name with that of a girl of un¬ 
known antecedents, especially since such gossip was 
bound to reflect upon her daughter. 

Yet Aline was getting a thrill from the novel experi¬ 
ence, and she could not understand why Carol found it 
distasteful. It furnished her with an unexpected relief 
in her restless routine and stimulated her interest in 
the diversions of a waning social season. Yet Aline’s 
growing impatience with Carol’s diffidence was not 
prompted by any lack of sympathy nor the desire to 
tantalize. Rather, Aline found herself completely 
enamored with her charming chance companion and 
regarded Carol with a flapper’s unbounded admiration. 
Aline was used to being gossiped about herself and to 
seeing her pictures published in every sort of bizarre 
frock and fetching pose; hence she was at loss to 
fathom the other girl’s apparent horror whenever she 
saw a lens leveled in her direction. 

If Stratini knew or suspected the situation, he held 
his counsel, for reasons good and sufficient for his pur¬ 
pose. Cognizant of Aline’s attempts to encourage 
Carol’s confidence, he took no steps to halt them. And 
perhaps he regarded his pupil’s reticence with a dubi¬ 
ous satisfaction. If he affected a supreme contempt 
for the views of others, with relation to himself, he was 
fully aware of their bearing upon a girl such as Carol. 




THIS WOMAN 


89 


That she valued Aline’s affections more than she did 
his own, was perfectly obvious and thoroughly natural. 
Yet the impresario knew that Carol stood in awe of 
him—that he personified her ambition—and that she 
was aware that she must pattern her conduct along the 
lines he laid down. 

He knew the girl to be mystified by his recent atti¬ 
tude, when deliberate brutality had shown him her 
depths of emotion. And he smiled at her doubt as to 
how sincere he had been in explaining that little scene 
to the others. Now, however, he had but one ground 
for discontent: the anxiety lest Carol’s head should be 
turned and that overconfidence in herself might wean 
her away from him. In that event, if ambition waned 
or wavered, the articles of incorporation would prove 
but empty legal phrasing, for singers cannot be made 
from such specifications. Danger reared its head in 
these newspaper stories ... in the haze of doubt with 
which they surrounded the girl and made her the more 
appealing. The insidious pitfalls, dug by publicity, 
made her worth while in the eyes of the men who 
directed vaudeville and the screen. If she chose these 
easier-trod paths, and a break should ensue with 
Stratini, he knew that many a manager would approach 
her with a contract. 

Consequently, Stratini encouraged extravagance in 
the selection of Carol’s wardrobe. He wished her to 
feel the weight of her obligation to her incorporators 
. . . likewise the lure of luxurious raiment. It would 
not be to him alone that she would be indebted, but to 
Mrs. R.-S. and Aline—to Whitney and even to Bleeker. 
He had seen the flash of her indignation when he sug¬ 
gested the possibility of a personal arrangement with 
him. He knew that he could not hope to hold her 
under such conditions, for her soul had revolted when 
he had seared it with his suggestions. She would not 
stoop to do an unworthy thing, but she would strive with 
all that was in her to seem worthy of the regard of these 





90 


THIS WOMAN 


other women. And because of Carol’s sponsorship, the 
men whom she might meet could only hope to assume 
the role of suitors. Stratini had no fear of them, even 
though he would not cast himself in the part of a 
Romeo. Yet he was fully aware of the weakness of his 
very strength; and the man took thought accordingly. 

If Carol wished to go on, it was plain that she must 
retain each stockholder’s regard. To do so was her 
only shield against the spectre-like denouement of which 
he had hinted. Hence Stratini skillfully blended the 
ingredients of Carol’s affection, pride, ambition and 
obligation—not to produce a chef-d'oeuvre which he 
might devour, but to make Carol a morsel most tempt¬ 
ing to the others. Yet he did not mean to efface him¬ 
self completely from the picture, nor would he relax his 
relentless conditions one iota. Always, Carol must 
remember that unless she bowed to his will in the matter 
of study and practice, her only hope of attaining her 
coveted goal was a sacrifice which she could not make 
and face the rest of them. 

Perhaps Carol sensed his purpose, but hardly very 
clearly. At times, she almost felt as though she might 
trust him implicitly and tell the whole sordid story 
without need of extenuation. Again she rebelled at the 
thought of such frank confession, and even subjugated 
her desire to throw herself upon the mercy of Aline. 
So she tried to absorb herself in the fascination of pre¬ 
paring for the lessons which were to begin within the 
next two weeks, after she had rested and adapted her¬ 
self to her present surroundings. She adored the 
lovely, lacy things which she and Aline selected and 
paid for out of the corporation’s fund; and subtly 
enough, the luxury she had attained through fairy-like 
magic became almost essential to her. Safeguarded 
and pampered, she let herself be lulled into a blissful 
state of false contentment. Then, as Baptiste Stratini 
had shrewdly foreseen, she found herself rudely awak¬ 
ened, late one afternoon. 




THIS WOMAN 


91 


The Rhinebeck-Sturdevant car was spinning through 
the park on the way to the Plaza, where Gramercy 
Bleeker waited to play host at tea. Aline was chatting 
away like a garrulous magpie, but Carol was staring 
dully through the window. The benches along the 
walks were filled by nursemaids, flirting with passing 
policemen while their charges played. Carol envied 
their laughter and grew more depressed as the memo¬ 
ries conjured by the scene flashed back into her mind. 
She wondered whether Bleeker still thought of the 
purse he had found at her feet, and, what was more to 
the point, just what he thought of her. He had acted 
like a trump, but she could not expect the man to hold 
his place forever, if reason should prompt the wisdom 
of breaking his generous silence. 

Circling from the park entrance, the motor paused 
by the porte-cochere of their destination, and Carol 
sought to recover her wandering thoughts. A gold- 
laced attendant opened the limousine door and Aline 
leaped to the sidewalk. She was spied by a gay girl 
in a saucy toque, who caught her by the arm, and 
thinking that Carol followed, the two were instantly 
lost in the laughing tea-throng. Carol stepped to the 
carpet, leading to the entrance, just as the two were 
swallowed up by the revolving doors. Then, transfixed 
by a nameless horror, she uttered a little cry, and felt 
as though she wished to sink through the pavement. 
Directly before her stood a dowdy little woman whose 
eyes were gaping at every detail of Carol’s costume, 
from the tips of her sandaled, silk-shod feet to the fur 
which swathed her throat. 

A hoarse, discordant cackle voiced the woman’s con¬ 
tempt, and a clawlike hand in a shabby-worn glove 
clutched at Carol’s arm with the eagerness of a vulture’s 
hungry destro 3 ung talons. 

Conscious of the comments of smartly dressed 
women, passing beneath the hotel canopy, Carol was 
keenly aware of the Rhinebeck-Sturdevant chauffeur’s 




92 


THIS WOMAN 


outraged stare. The lackey closing the limousine door 
was turning to interfere, and several smart-looking 
men were longing to come to her aid. Of course this 
woman could not know of Carol’s transformation, but 
what she suspected was evident, and Carol saw that she 
meant to make a scene. Panic-stricken, the girl could 
not speak for a moment, as she recalled with a sick¬ 
ening feeling, the fact that she had no money. Not 
since her incorporation had there been any need for 
her to carry any . . . but now, of course, it was 
money this woman wanted . . . the rent of the little 
hall room to which Carol had failed to return after her 
disappearance. 

Now she saw how foolish her course had been; long 
ago she should have canceled her debt and redeemed 
the trunk the woman was holding. Yet she had not had 
the courage to go back to that dingy house. But for 
her negligence, this link in the chain of her fetters 
would be broken by now; instead, it bound her tightly 
to the things she wished to forget. And the lack of 
the meager sum required made the situation tragic. 
What to do she did not know . . . yet she must take 
some action . . . quietly and quickly. If Mrs. Acker 
should raise an outcry and clamor for her arrest, Carol 
knew the contretemps would be more than she could 
bear. The mere thought of a policeman nearly drove 
her frantic. 

“Can’t I come to„see you to-morrow?” she begged 
almost piteously, and the liveried attendant stood aside, 
pretending not to listen. 

“You can’t set foot in my house to-morrow or any 
day!” the woman despised her as she appraised the 
worth of the car and formed a natural conclusion. 
“You can pay me what you owe if you like, but I run 
a decent place and I don’t want any such women as 
you boarding with me!” 

Flushed with mortification and stunned by the accu¬ 
sation, Carol held out her hands, appealing to be heard. 




THIS WOMAN 


93 


“Oh, please, Mrs. Acker!” she pleaded, “you really 
don’t understand . . .” 

“Pm not blind, am I?” the woman croaked. “This 
town’s full of hussies like you . . .” 

But her harsh voice ceased abruptly, and Carol was 
faintly conscious of a bluecoat’s approach. She was 
trembling so that she dared not face the crowd, and 
condemned herself by her hanging head as she groped 
for the limousine door. Then, above the others, she 
heard a voice that was strangely familiar, and as she 
swayed, a strong arm slipped about her waist. Shrew¬ 
ish protests mingled with male adjurations of silence, 
and Carol heard a gruff command to the throng to 
move on. 

Raising her eyes for an instant, Carol glimpsed 
Gramercy Bleeker, passing a roll of bills to the officer 
who was roughly pushing someone away. She wanted 
to stop him ... to tell him not to hurt the woman 
... to explain her natural mistake and tell them all 
that what Mrs. Acker surmised was anything but the 
truth. Surely they must believe her . . . they would 
know who she was since her name had filled the papers! 
And then she remembered the thing she couldn't explain 
. . . and unless she did she could not hope to convince 
this woman. 

But Bleeker was lifting her into the car, and as a 
whistle blew, she huddled herself miserably against the 
corner cushions. She felt the powerful motor pick up, 
and knew that the car was speeding into the park . . . 
she saw those benches again . . . remembered the man 
by her side . . . and now she heard him giving direc¬ 
tions through the speaking tube. Then, something 
seemed to snap, and her torment was suddenly soothed 
as darkness enshrouded her and she drifted off into 
peace. 




X. 


The faint light of a silk-shaded night lamp illumined 
Aline’s features as Carol opened her eyes and the girl 
bent anxiously over her. 

“Fair enough!” Aline exclaimed with eager satisfac¬ 
tion. “Milady’s herself again!” 

Carol smiled, wanly. “It seems as though I’m always 
upsetting things!” she murmured bitterly, and for 
answer, Aline kissed her with tender affection. 

“Nonsense!” she protested. “You were overtired, 
that’s all . . . with the fittings and all the excitement 
it isn’t any wonder. . . . It’s darned lucky that Gra- 
mercy happened along when he did. I’d gone on in with 
Marie Lamont, and never knew you’d fainted ’til 
Gramercy ’phoned from here and had me paged.” 

Carol was awakening to find herself on her bed 
. . . at least the bed that was hers by the grace of 
Mrs. R.-S. . . . yet now her possession of it seemed 
only too temporary. It had happened . . . twelve 
o’clock had struck ... it was time for Cinderella to 
go . . . and the Prince would not follow her . . . for 
this Cinderella’s heel was like that of Achilles. Trying 
to reconstruct what had happened in her interim of 
unconsciousness, returning memory stabbed her like a 
knife, and she knew that she must be frank with Aline. 
Only the truth in all its unpleasantness could save her 
from further scandal, yet it was not any easy task to 
make her story clear . . . perhaps it would be impos¬ 
sible . . . she hoped not. However, she could not 
hope that Bleeker would let matters drift after what 
he had heard . . . men didn’t when they reached such 
a stage. Besides, she knew that she did not wish him 
to hold his tongue, if doing so should mean that he 
believed Mrs. Acker. 


94 


THIS WOMAN 


95 


“Aline,” she vaguely groped for words, “I’ve some¬ 
thing I want to tell you . . . and I don’t quite know 
how.” 

“Tell it to the Marines, old dear!” Aline laughed 
mischievously. “Are you in love with Gramercy, or 
only angry at him for proposing in the car?” 

“Aline! Surely you can’t imagine ...” 

“I’ve given up trying where Gram’s concerned . . * 
he’s such a terrible flirt!” Aline assured her. “Now, 
honest injun—didn’t you two run away from us?” 

“Why, of course not, dear,” Carol denied, and would 
have been amused if her thoughts had not been far too 
serious. “Something happened . . . and Mr. Bleeker 
came . . . and . . . brought me here. . . . I’m afraid 
that’s all I know.” Then after a pause, she could not 
help adding, “Didn’t he explain?” 

“It’s against his principles!” Aline replied. “He’s 
out in the library drinking up all the Scotch and deny¬ 
ing absolutely that he even tried to kiss you!” 

Carol took sudden thought, and wondered whether, 
after all, this was the time to speak. It was possible 
that Bleeker had not heard the woman, and that if he 
had, he supposed the creature must be demented. He 
would be like that, she reasoned. 

“Now, honor bright, and cross your heart!” Aline 
persisted. “Didn’t he try to pet you a bit and didn’t 
you two have a squabble?” 

“Of course not,” Carol smiled in spite of her nerv¬ 
ousness. “He behaved like a perfect dear ... so 
splendidly, in fact, that I could almost kiss him." 

“I knew it!” Aline cried with glee. “He was alto¬ 
gether too fussed to be telling the truth when he said 
some woman had raised a row and that you’d fainted 
before the police could drag her off. . . .” 

“Then they did arrest her?” Carol asked in dismay. 
It was wrong to let the old lady suffer for what she had 
done, cruel as her charge had been, for no doubt she 




96 


THIS WOMAN 


had felt herself justified, and had only been carried 
away by her feeling against her ex-lodger. 

“Of course they carted her off in the big black 
wagon!” Aline laughed. “Isn’t that what they always 
do with lady-lushes?” 

“But she wasn’t . . . intoxicated!” Carol insisted. 
“Mr. Bleeker didn’t say she was, did he?” 

“No,” Aline admitted. “He said she was nutty or 
something; but what of it, since you’re rested? Let’s 
go in to Gramercy, if you’re ready for tea.” 

Carol sat up and very slowly got to her feet. She 
wanted to think . . . wanted to be alone with her 
problem . . . yet she knew there was no time to weigh 
values now. She must either speak to Aline before she 
should see Bleeker, or else continue the role of her 
deception. And disconsolate over the turn affairs had 
taken, she felt that she could not endure her torture 
alone. 

“Aline,” she said, steadying herself by the foot of 
the bed, “you must wait and listen, just a moment, dear. 
You and your mother have been unbelievably kind, and 
I’ve repaid you with a silence that’s inexcusable. . . .” 

“Oh, you darling, adorable thing!” Aline exclaimed, 
and throwing her arms about her neck, kissed her 
eagerly. “I know you’re going to tell me what every¬ 
one’s been hinting . . . that you’re a perfectly awful, 
unspeakable woman!” 

Carol gasped, then smiled indulgently. It would be 
harder than she had imagined to disillusion Aline, yet 
having broached the subject, she must endure the 
ordeal, and she felt that she would be happier when the 
girl understood. It was only just that she should, and 
the incident of the afternoon would not go unrepeated, 
since dozens of people had heard what the woman said. 

“Suppose,” she began again, “Suppose I really were 
one . . .?” 

“I’d hug you to death!” Aline assured her brazenly. 
“Oh, Carol, I’ve always wanted to know someone be- 






THIS WOMAN 


97 


yond the pale—not nicely and decently naughty, the 
way all of us are—but as wicked as a woman can pos¬ 
sibly be! Wickeder, in fact.” 

“Perhaps you’d be disappointed . . . when you 
found it was true . . . especially if you cared for her 
... a little.” Carol turned away to hide the tears 
in her eyes. 

“Oh, rot!” snapped Aline, and put her hands on 
Carol’s shoulders in boyish fashion. “I don’t know 
what you’re hinting about, or just what terrible sin 
you suppose you’ve committed, but you can’t be half 
as bad as you think you are. Nobody is. We’re fakes 
—every one of us—so silly and transparent in our 
unholiness that even the poor old Rector sees through 
us!” 

“I can imagine that you are , dear,” Carol assented, 
“but can’t you understand that I’d feel, oh, so much 
better, if you and your mother only knew what I ought 
to tell you?” 

For a moment Aline looked at her through narrowed 
lids; then she shook her head decisively, and, lighting a 
cigarette, shrugged her slender, immature shoulders. 

“Look here, Carol Drayton!” she said a little 
harshly. “If you’re going to play with our crowd, 
you’ve got to run true to form. I don’t know what 
you’ve done and I don’t care a damn. I suppose I’m 
not really bad . . . I’m just brazen . . . and willing 
to do almost anything that I shouldn’t—if I thought 
I’d get a thrill out of it. If I’m good, it’s because I 
haven’t the guts to be bad—which very inelegant ex¬ 
pression is a favorite of Stratini’s—and what I say of 
myself is his opinion of me. So there!” 

“But you don’t quite understand,” Carol persisted* 
a little shocked at the other’s frank appraisal of the 
fault she assumed as her own. 

“Oh, yes, I do!” Aline tossed her head. “Do you 
think I don’t imagine the reason men stare at my legs 
. . why they feed me cocktails and ask me to drive 




98 


THIS WOMAN 


out to dinner at Indianbow? I’m not a baby, and I 
haven’t any stones to throw at girls who live in glass 
houses and don’t pull down the shades. Why, my dear, 
there are women in our set who’re so rotten they’re not 
fit to speak to you. They’ve been divorced and remar¬ 
ried so often that a naturalist couldn’t figure out their 
family trees! And as for the rest, they’re so hopeless 
that Doctor Duane’s given up trying to save their 
souls, and actually toadies to them.” 

“You’re a dear, Aline!” Carol declared with emotion, 
“but I’m afraid the omissions of others won’t help to 
purge my conscience.” 

“Nonsense!” Aline pressed her hand. “Consciences 
are obsolete . . . besides, you mustn’t tell me my 
idol’s feet are of clay! Carol, you’ve simply got to 
be wicked! If you don’t I shan’t like you a little bit 
. . . and besides, I’m getting thirsty, and if we wait 
any longer, Gram’ll have drunk up everything and be 
all potted again!” 

In her present mood it was useless to say anything 
more, yet in spite of her happiness over Aline’s un¬ 
doubted affection, Carol was loath to join Bleeker 
without bringing up the subject Aline had banned. 

“Would you mind very much,” she suggested, a bit 
timidly, “if I stay here while you two . . .” 

“I would!” Aline slipped her arm through hers, and 
led her toward the door. “You’re not going to mope 
any longer and hide your light under a bushel! Gra- 
mercy will worship you when he finds out that you’re 
wicked. . . .” 

Although the tone was one of unmistakable banter, 
the remark itself made Carol wince. No doubt Bleeker 
already believed enough, and the halo of unhallowed¬ 
ness which Aline proposed to place upon her brow 
would hardly add any luster or lure to her reputation. 
In any event, she would have to talk plainly to 
Bleeker; then he would be free to speak or not as he 
chose. At least she would be no longer indebted to him, 




THIS WOMAN 


99 


when she freed him from any fancied obligation to her; 
and to keep him in his present status was manifestly 
unfair. She would ask him to go to the precinct sta¬ 
tion and secure Mrs. Acker’s release; then, if he liked, 
he might hear them both and draw his own conclusions. 

So, reluctantly, she arranged her hair and gave a 
touch to her frock, but she felt in no mood to resort to 
lipstick or powder puff. And, Eve-like, Aline recog¬ 
nized the symptoms. Obviously, her efforts to divert 
Carol from whatever preyed upon her mind had failed 
utterly. The knowledge sent a wave of generous emo¬ 
tion surging through her veins, and, throwing her arms 
about Carol, she hugged her intensely, murmuring a 
flood of terms of unfeigned girlish devotion. 

“Please don’t think I’m a brainless fool!” she pleaded 
earnestly, “and remember that no matter what you’ve 
done—you’re just dear you to me!” 

Carol could not keep back her tears, but she brushed 
them away almost guiltily as the two turned into the 
hall and walked slowly toward the library. Then, to 
her amazement, Aline threw open the door, and drew 
herself up like a little grenadier. 

“Mademoiselle Carol Drayton, milord!” she mocked 
the butler’s tone. And then, with an elfin twinkle in 
her eyes, she demanded that the two make up and 
behave like proper children until she returned. 

Carol gave a little gasp as Aline disappeared, and 
for a moment stood hesitant on the threshold. Slowly, 
Bleeker put down the decanter from which he was help¬ 
ing himself. Carol thought his face was a trifle flushed 
and his eyes seemed heavy and weary, yet solicitude 
was apparent in the questioning glance he gave her. 

“Top-side again?” he asked with a pleasant smile. 
“Didn’t know what was best to do, so I thought I’d 
bring you home.” 

“Thank you,” said Carol simply, and sank down on 
the davenport, hardly knowing what to say now that 
the moment had come. Intently she studied the point 




100 


THIS WOMAN 


of her slipper and twisted her handkerchief nervously 
as Bleeker watched the play of the lights on her dark 
hair. 

“I didn’t make any charges against that woman,” 
he modulated his tone and glanced toward the door. 
“Thought maybe you’d rather not appear against 
her. . . .” 

“Oh!” Carol gasped, and turned to him gratefully. 
“You can’t know how grateful I am! I hope the officer 
let her go . . . that there won’t be any trouble. . . 

“Not a chance!” he assured her, and lighted a ciga¬ 
rette to conceal his own all too apparent and growing 
perturbation. “There was no one around who counted 
... no one who knew who you were . . . and the 
cops and the boys at the Plaza are patron saints of 
mine. They’re the famous little angels who look out 
for drunken fools, and I keep them nice and friendly 
by slipping them backsheesh!” 

Carol declined a cigarette, and bit her lip inde¬ 
cisively. Then she resolved to take the plunge and 
have it done. “But surely you heard what the woman 
said?” she put to him bluntly. 

“Rot, of course!” he shrugged. “She ought to be 
put in a padded cell . . . and she can be if you wish 
. . . but in view of the papers and you’re being here, 
I thought perhaps it might be best to overlook the 
whole thing. Mind if I take a drink?” 

“Naturally not,” said Carol. “But don’t you think 
it’s time you and I were more frank . . . time that I 
told you how much all you’ve done has meant to me?” 

“Don’t get you!” he tried to pretend. “What have 
I done nowf” 

“Surely you understand exactly what I mean,” 
Carol insisted, making him meet her eyes. “You were 
perfectly splendid about that handbag. . . 

“So it was yours!” he laughed. “Well, no one’s the 
wiser and it’s rather fun to have a secret between us. 
Besides, that business was all my fault. . . 




THIS WOMAN 


101 


“It wasn’t!” she objected. “Of course you didn’t 
know you’d put it in your pocket.” Then she added 
meaningly, “I suppose you don’t know now precisely 
what was in it?” 

Her questioning inflection and her emphasis struck 
him as peculiar, and his answering look confessed his 
ignorance of her inference. “You mean there was 
something in it . . . something rather special?” he 
asked in mild surprise. “I might have known that when 
Whitney produced it at tea . . . and your manner 
confirmed my suspicion that you were the girl in the 
park.” 

“Didn’t you even wonder why I denied that the bag 
was mine?” she searched him. 

“No . . . and yes,” he admitted. “I thought per¬ 
haps it was because of me ... I was hardly myself 
that night . . . and I thought there might have been 
something . . . well something I’d said or done . . .” 

“There wasn’t!” she told him. “But when Whitney 
showed me the purse, the thing I was worried about 
was gone.” 

“Awkward?” He raised his eyebrows. “You’d 
rather Whit or Stratti shouldn’t see it? Well, I 
wouldn’t worry then . . . they’d have been certain to 
mention anything if they’d found it.” 

She did not seem at all certain that such would be 
the case, and he read the doubt which flashed across her 
features. Silently he puffed at his cigarette, and then 
drained his glass, taking a step toward her and regard¬ 
ing Carol with kindly concern. “Did it have . . . any¬ 
thing to do with that woman’s chatter this afternoon ?” 

“In a way,” she admitted. . . . 

“And it bothers you like the devil!” he nodded 
regretfully. “Don’t let it! Take what the gods give 
you and chuck the worry.” 

“Can you advise that?” she asked, uncertainly. 
“You would hardly sympathize with my continuing to 




102 


THIS WOMAN 


deceive Mrs. R.-S. and Aline, after all they’ve done for 
me . . . after what you heard!” 

“I don’t believe all I hear,” he smiled at her, his 
desire to be helpful plainly evident. “I don’t know 
what you imagine I’m thinking of you . . . but you 
must be wrong.” 

“Then what do you think ?” she wondered. 

“I think you’re the most charming idiot I’ve known 
in ages!” he appraised her with a chuckle, not unkind, 
yet frankly amused. 

“Then you blame me for electing to sail under false 
colors?” she put to him directly. “Suppose I tell you 
that what you heard was true?” 

“If you do I shall think you’re even more idiotic!” 
he answered thoughtfully. “Why should you . . . 
even if it is so? I know I’m a rum sort of parson to 
preach to a pretty woman, but I’m rather a connois¬ 
seur of the chaste as well as the chased. I know most 
of the bad points of the good ones, and all of the good 
points of the bad ones . . . and I’ve found blue ribbon 
fillies in both classes. . . 

“Not running in harness together !” she reminded 
him. 

“Oh, come!” he protested. “I’m not pretending to 
judge you or trying to put you over the jumps . . . 
but I’ll say you’re a thoroughbred, and I hope you’re 
not going to shy at a little advice.” 

“That, I’m afraid, will depend upon what you sug¬ 
gest,” Carol waited. 

“Keep quiet!” he proposed. “The Sphinx was 
erected in memory of the only woman the world ever 
knew to hold her tongue. She may have outvamped 
Cleopatra, but no one has ever whispered the slightest 
scandal concerning the lady. Just because she kept 
her own counsel, the world looks upon her as wise, and 
all the mummies who might have spilled the beans are 
sound asleep in their coffins in our leading museums.” 

“But the mummies who know about me are very 




THIS WOMAN 


103 


much alive!” Carol said slowly. “And the memory that 
will never die is a part of me.” 

“Cherish it!” he exclaimed with a touch of sarcastic 
indifference, “but lay it away in lavender ’til it’s old 
enough to be worth while. Some day you can trot it 
out and publish the story broadcast. Your press agent 
will turn hand-springs of delight!” 

“Stratini might offer that as a solution,” she told 
him bluntly, “but he would not permit me to stay here 
living a lie.” 

“Why not?” he shrugged. “Don’t we all live lies? 
Why, even Aline’s a worse little liar than you. You’re 
merely trying to hide something you’re sorry you did 
. . . Aline, like the rest of the flappers, is trying to 
make us believe she’s the sort of girl she wouldn’t dare 
to be. Wherefore, as our dear friend the Rector would 
say, her example is more reprehensible than yours.” 

“You’re begging the question,” she stopped him; 
“besides, I won’t let you criticize Aline.” 

“I’m not trying to!” he denied with fervor. “I’m 
keen about Aline, and I’d marry her to-morrow if she’d 
have me. Only I can’t help laughing when I think how 
she’d love to change places with you. Why, Aline 
would simply glory in the loss of her reputation . . . 
if it didn’t necessitate the sacrifice of her virtue!” 

“That’s not fair!” Carol protested, suspicious of 
his loquaciousness and doubtful of his sincerity; but 
as he went on his manner and tone carried complete 
conviction. 

“Now see here!” he argued gently. “You’re being 
blamed for something that isn’t your fault . . . and if 
you’ve made a mistake, you’re trying to play square 
now. Neither a man nor a woman can ask any more 
than that. If you were rotten at heart you wouldn’t 
have done as you did on the steps of the Plaza. A girl 
like that would have brazened it through . . . but you 
caved in completely.” 

“I couldn’t help it!” she cried and turned away. 




104 


THIS WOMAN 


“Which only proves my case!” he said triumphantly. 
“Why, even Aline would have reveled in such an en¬ 
counter! She’d have bawled out the old woman like a 
furious fishwife, safe in the knowledge that a daughter 
of Croesus may be viewed with suspicion but not with 
contempt.” 

“Aline would have been safe in a sounder sense of 
security!” Carol shook her head. 

“Flapper fallacy!” he insisted. “Most of ’em are on 
the level, but they’re not level-headed. They want to 
play the game and they won’t abide by the rules. Men 
laugh at ’em but they don’t like it. Any man who’s a 
man will forgive a woman who isn’t quite all she feels 
she ought to be . . . but he’s no use for the girl who 
pretends to be all that she’s not.” 

“A comforting philosophy . . . but dangerous,” she 
declined to acquiesce. 

“Confound it!” he burst out, “You’re hopeless! 
Can’t you see what I’m driving at ? What you’ve done 
doesn’t make any difference about your staying here 
. . . it’s what you can do for Aline. Hang it all, 
Carol Drayton, that kid needs you, needs you like the 
devil! She’s crazy about you, and wherever you lead 
she’ll follow. If you quit cold she’ll regard you as a 
martyr and emulate your weakness . . . but if you 
keep quiet and carry on, you’ll carry Aline with 
you. ...” t 

“I wonder where?” she broke in pensively. 

“Where ignorance isn’t mistaken for bliss and the 
wise are not thought foolish!” he said with a smile. 
“Because you’ve learned a lesson or two, you must 
know I’m right, old dear. By helping Aline, you’ll help 
yourself—and the devil take old Mrs. Grundy! Just 
give it a thought and see if you don’t agree with me. 
I’ll bet you a bid to my wedding it works out the way 
it should!” J 





XI. 


If the other incorporators were more or less inter¬ 
ested in the safety of Carol’s soul, Stratini was only 
concerned with her body, her voice and her mind. And 
with the launching of the routine the impresario had 
devised, Carol realized his prophecy that her soul would 
not be her own. 

No candidate for prize ring laurels was ever trained 
more severely and painstakingly from a purely physi¬ 
cal standpoint. From the prescribed moment of her 
awakening to the precise time when she retired, exer¬ 
cises and inhibitions were the order of her day. Begin¬ 
ning with a cold shower and ending with a warm bath, 
each busily occupied hour brought its means of making 
her more robust, its safeguards against surplus flesh, 
and its guarantees of a graceful carriage. In fact she 
was taught to make each movement with studied, 
cadenced precision . . . yet affectation was carefully 
guarded against. Canters, hikes, motor rides and 
fencing interspersed strenuous sessions in a private 
gymnasium. Weights, dumb-bells, rowing machines and 
parallel bars helped to expand her chest, and to make 
more shapely her charming contours. Gargles, mas¬ 
sages and minutely supervised practice strengthened 
her throat and enriched her mellifluous tones. 

Already Stratini was in ecstasies over the excep¬ 
tional range of her voice, not excelled, he boasted, by 
the marvelous powers of the great Calve herself. From 
deepest contralto to sweetest and highest soprano, 
seemed but an effortless sweep to Carol, and Stratini 
raved with delight as he taught her the principles of 
Italian bel canto. “A Galli, a Calve, a Garden!” he 
would murmur to himself. “Yet there is one thing 
lacking . . . and that I shall supply. She has not yet 

105 


106 


THIS WOMAN 


suffered—enough . . . but that is a simple matter. 
Once she falls in love and breaks her heart . . . then, 
by the great God of Heaven, she’ll sing!” 

Yet such views he kept to himself. Not insensible to 
the value of mild encouragement and moderate praise, 
he was equally lavish with ridicule and remonstrance. 
Had not the immortal Caruso been maddened into 
achievement b}^ the supercilious scorn of a shrewd 
Neapolitan choir-master? It was amusing, too, this 
browbeating! He liked to see her writhe under his 
studiedly cruel witticisms—thrusts which made her 
open wounds quiver . . . and at times, Stratini would 
strike more deeply than he knew\ His tantrums would 
drive her to tears, and when he had goaded her into a 
terrible rage, he would pace up and down the room and 
shake his sides with mirth. 

“Ah, bien!” he would cry and clap his hands. “You 
hate me . . . that is good! Now we shall do better, 
n’est-ce-pas? . . . Come! . . . Twenty times more 
that phrase . . . until we have it ... so! ... Si! 
that is right. . . . Bah! . . . now you are wrong . . . 
terrible . . . impossible! Once more! . . . La, la, la! 

. . . not bad . . . but for you such singing w T ill not 
do! Would you make a monkey of meV 9 

Breakfasts were carefully supervised with respect to 
calories, and luncheons and dinners were fixed and 
frugal feasts. Her afternoons were as busy as her 
active mornings, and her evenings were devoted to 
reading and sleep. There were hours at the piano, 
practice with Stratini, the study of roles and the 
learning of languages, not unvaried by wisely selected 
amusements. The opera, of course, was ended for the 
season, as were the splendid concerts of the Philhar¬ 
monic, yet Carol heard worth while performances at 
Carnegie Hall and the Metropolitan. She studied the 
artistes commended by her instructor, and longed for 
more personal contact with these great ones; but this 
Stratini strictly forbade. 





THIS WOMAN 


107 


“You will soon grow impossible enough without 
learning their tricks of temper!” he told her laugh¬ 
ingly ; yet wise in his chosen field, he knew whereof he 
spoke. “Grown babies who would be helpless without 
their wet-nurses!” he scoffed. “It is not they who are 
great, but we patient ones who make them so! By 
yourself, you are a nobody, a nothing! With me —you 
can be anybody you like! But do not forget that it is 
Stratini and not the insignificant Carol Drayton who 
will make the world shout Bravo! when you step upon 
the stage. Your voice is like a violin—sweet only when 
it is played by a maestro. I am the musician . . . you 
the instrument. Take care I do not smash you one of 
these days!” 

Naturally, under Stratini’s regime, Carol saw little 
of Mrs. R.-S. and even less of Aline. Post-Lenten fes¬ 
tivities freed the wings of the flappers, carefully clipped 
by Doctor Duane during the forty-day season when 
his preachments reigned supreme. And rather than 
witness the swing of the social pendulum to the other 
extreme, the worthy Rector had taken himself abroad 
to discourse of things canonical with a dignified Hert¬ 
fordshire dean. 

“Life’s becoming a round of riots!” Aline confided 
to Carol, “and I simply don’t see how the hooch can 
hold out at the rate we’re lapping it up!” 

Carol smiled and thought of Bleeker ... of what 
he had said in the library that late afternoon, after 
her encounter in front of the Plaza. Sometimes she 
wondered how earnest the man had been, and just how 
helpful her presence was to Aline. Certainly, the two 
were hardly ever together, for Stratini had frowned 
severely at the suggestion of Carol’s participation in 
the whirl which completely occupied the time of the 
piquant Aline. Nor did Carol see much of Bleeker, and 
if she had had time to be lonely, she felt that she would 
have missed his curious, comforting counsel. 

At times she needed it, busy as she was kept, and 




108 


THIS WOMAN 


she longed to unburden her weary mind of the things 
which still tortured her. For days after the scene with 
Mrs. Acker, she had feared each ring of the telephone, 
each trip that Judson made to the apartment door. 
She felt like an impostor in keeping the silence enjoined 
by Bleeker, but gradually that uneasiness lulled itself 
and smoldered deep in her heart. There were no 
echoes of the landlady’s accusation, and the newspapers 
had ceased their flamboyant mention of the incorpora¬ 
tion that had only proved to be a mild three-day sensa¬ 
tion. In fact, if Carol chose to apply herself to her 
work and stifle her personal feelings, she needed to have 
no care save the effort to please Stratini. 

And not only did it elate her to strive to accomplish 
that, but the doing of it afforded her a blessed relief. 
The sense of achievement was stimulating. It spurred 
her on to greater endeavor, and she could not help 
taking a deep satisfaction in the progress she knew she 
was making. The mistakes of her earlier training were 
all too apparent now, and each new turn in Stratini’s 
methods pointed a readily followed road to mastery of 
the gift which lay in her throat. Despite his grinding, 
she was filled with gratitude as she realized the results 
his skill and his domination had accomplished in even 
so short a time. And while he did not tell her so, 
Stratini was amazed at her pliability and the develop¬ 
ment his wizardry was bringing about. 

The impresario sensed the first fruits of victory 
when he knew that Carol would now never willingly 
swerve from her purpose. With the plaudits of the pub¬ 
lic almost within reach, with the twinkle of the footlights 
and the glitter of great audiences beckoning to her, he 
was certain that she would prove more and more 
moldable as time went on. With an amused smile he 
would watch her during her periods of rest, listening 
spellbound to the records of women whose voices the 
disc had already preserved for posterity. Not that she 
was merely thrilled by their trills and cadenzas, but 




THIS WOMAN 


109 


because she could imagine the day when her voice would 
sound in millions of homes at the needle’s touch. She 
was in the grip of ambition, in all of its vain longing, 
its selfishness and its personal adoration. Other temp¬ 
tations were puny . . . almost nothing mattered . . . 
since sentiment did not seem to have deeply touched 
her as yet. 

Carol likewise realized the subtle change in herself. 
She no longer felt meekly humble, and she could have 
been happy in the supremest sense of joyous emotion, 
but for the one regret which rankled deep down within 
her. In some moods she tried to laugh at her puritan- 
ism. After all, as Aline had said, there were countless 
other women who had ventured farther and fared better 
than she. She wanted to let the dead past remain dead, 
and banish her ghosts from the feast; yet somehow she 
realized that she must be made of sterner stuff than 
those who could live as they liked to-day, and forget 
about it to-morrow. 

And that was where the hurt came. She had not 
lived as she liked, and yet she must pay the piper for 
a dance she had not enjoyed! Well, the piper might 
wait—for the present. If he dunned her, that would 
be different; but if she continued her fight, he would 
not find her bankrupt when he came to collect. She 
could laugh in the fellow’s face, and the world would 
laugh at him with her, once her name flared forth from 
the operatic bills. Yet despite this marked difference 
in her attitude, there was no diminution in her regard 
for Mrs. R.-S. and Aline. On the contrary, she was 
striving to earn their commendation, to possess the 
right to be with them always . . . and although she 
did not realize the truth . . . she was battling to retain 
a place in the pleasant environment to which she had 
been admitted by the merest chance. But like all some¬ 
what superstitious geniuses, she began to laugh at the 
idea of luck, and attributed her good fortune to the 
workings of Fate. Bom to succeed, she could not fail, 




110 


THIS WOMAN 


and she would not! She could not be robbed of the gift 
that was hers, and now that she knew how to use it, 
those who sought to stand in her way would receive 
short shrift. 

Yet Carol reckoned without herself in coming to this 
conclusion, and her pride was due for a cropper just 
around the corner. It came on the afternoon when she 
went alone to Borland’s, booted and spurred, and eager 
to leap to the saddle. Familiar with horses since child¬ 
hood, when she had ridden ranch-fashion, her brief, 
swift canters were the pleasantest part of her day. At 
first, Stratini had ruled that she engage an instructor 
—to show her the proper seat and point out the capers 
considered improper for riders in Central Park. But 
after a few lessons, this part of the program was 
almost the only one Carol pursued alone. 

She had walked from the Park Avenue apartment, 
and her cheeks were aglow as she entered the riding 
academy, swinging her crop and looking the picture 
of health. A groom had her mount ready in the tan- 
bark ring, and just as Carol appeared, another horse 
was led out for a man who stood smoking a cigarette 
by the gallery steps. It was Whitney Duane, and his 
features lighted up in satisfaction as he caught a 
glimpse of Carol in a pier-glass even before she saw 
him. 

“Greetings!” he called and stamped out his cigarette 
in the turf. “At last I’ve outwitted the ogre and cap¬ 
tured the princess!” 

Carol laughed and gave him her hand with a frank, 
friendly grip. “Oh, it isn’t so bad as that, I hope,” 
she protested reprovingly. “Surely I’m permitted to 
ride with one of my stockholders.” 

“But Stratini forbids you to fall in love!” he teased 
as he patted her horse’s nose. 

“Vain creature!” Carol accused him. “One might 
think you were irresistible!” 

“Unfortunately I’m not,” he shook his head. “I’m 




THIS WOMAN 


111 


too old to attract the matrons and not old enough to 
appeal to the debutantes.” 

“Then I ought to be safe,” Carol said, as the groom 
held her stirrup, and she swung into the saddle. “I’ll 
race you to the reservoir. . . .” 

“Right!” he agreed, and their horses’ hoofs clattered 
out on the asphalt, trotting toward the entrance which 
gave on the bridle path. 

“Do you know,” she confided, sitting her saddle with 
graceful abandon, “my rides are the only moments 
when I really feel that I’m free. The rest of the time 
I might as well be a Circassian slave, guarded by 
eunuchs and pampered by ayahs . . . awaiting the 
Sultan’s approach!” 

“It’s hardly that, is it?” he asked, as they descended 
into the leafy dell, away from the motor roads. “You 
don’t mean that you’re unhappy ... in your work?” 

“Of course not!” she denied; yet now she realized 
that she had resented the studied aloofness with which 
Whitney had regarded her from the first. Perhaps his 
very suggestion of safeguarding her good name by 
means of the incorporation had been prompted by a 
desire to protect her sponsors rather than to make her 
feel less dependent upon their generosity. She realized, 
too, that this man was one of those whose money was 
making her future possible. And she could not help 
voicing the feeling which suddenly twitted her temper. 

“I suppose,” she said rather nastily, “I owe you a 
sort of account of what I’ve been doing . . . since 
you’ve invested your money in me.” 

“Oh, please!” he protested, flushing furiously. “You 
mustn’t. . . .” 

But her tiny spurs startled her mount and she was 
off like an arrow before he could turn his horse’s gait 
to a gallop. Like a mischievous elf eluding a wicked 
pursuer, she urged her splendid beast to greater speed, 
tapping its flanks incessantly with the tip of her crop. 
Snorting and springing forward, Whitney’s animal set 




112 


THIS WOMAN 


himself to the chase, and had gained half the distance 
when Carol disappeared beneath the natural bridge and 
faded away around the curve which carried on to their 
goal. 

Emerging onto the higher path, he saw the cloud of 
dust her fleet little mount’s hoofs scattered derisively, 
and he spurred on to catch up with her before she 
should gain the circle rounding the artificial lake. But 
a group of equestriennes, turning back, barred his 
progress, and he had to rein in to let them pass; so 
Carol was almost out of sight before Whitney could 
give his horse its head again. He had not liked that 
remark of hers—not because of its tone alone, but 
because of what it implied—a sense of resentment 
against Stratini’s restrictions. She was not a slave, 
of course, and she did not need to explain anything to 
Whitney. In fact, he detested the thought that Carol 
even considered the sum he had paid into her com¬ 
pany’s fund. Yet he supposed it was only natural 
. . . a woman like that could not relish a compara¬ 
tively strange man’s helping to finance her tuition . . . 
and, in a way, he was rather glad she had such scruples. 
God knew there were plenty who hadn't . . . some of 
them riding nearby . . . women whose horses were but 
a part of menages maintained by men whose views were 
far different from his. 

He’d mention the matter when he overtook Carol, 
he thought, as he rounded the turn and headed toward 
the south, close to Fifth Avenue. He noticed his 
uncle’s house across the way, windows boarded and 
gloomier than when the Rector was home. And Whit¬ 
ney found himself glad that Doctor Duane had sailed. 
He meant to see this thing through, to do all in his 
power to give this girl her chance, and he knew all too 
well what his uncle’s viewpoint would be. Damn it! 
Why did decent people always discredit a man’s pur¬ 
pose in wanting to do something for a pretty woman? 




THIS WOMAN 


113 


It wasn’t fair ... it was rotten! . . . but it was 
true. 

Of course the dominie would hold his tongue, since 
Mrs. R.-S. was a party to the bargain; he couldn’t 
well do otherwise and not get himself laughed at, but 
Whitney knew that the Rector’s return would mean a 
tongue-lashing for him. Not that he cared; he was 
fond of his uncle and the old gentleman’s zeal rather 
aroused his admiration when it didn’t amuse him; but 
he did not desire a rift in the amicable relations of the 
Duanes. Sort of noblesse oblige . . . then, too, his 
uncle was so habitually in print that a break between 
them would surely drift into the papers. That would 
mean more unpleasantness for Carol. Confound it! If 
the old man went after her, Whitney would certainly 
give him a bit of his mind. 

Then he overtook the victor of the race—not because 
she meant that he should, but because a traffic police¬ 
man had smilingly lifted his finger at her. “They can’t 
all ride like you, Miss,” the officer was saying as Whit¬ 
ney came along, “and it isn’t safe to let you go so 
fast.” 

He touched his cap to Whitney, and the two can¬ 
tered off in silence, neither quite knowing how to revert 
to their previous topic. Carol, a little ashamed, and 
fearing that she had hurt him, was reluctant even to 
apologize. Whitney, considerate and perplexed, would 
have tried to forget the matter if he had not wished to 
disabuse her mind. And, sensing the situation, their 
horses put their heads together, nodding sagely, and 
deciding to walk neck and neck, in order better to 
listen to what might soon be said. 

“I suppose I’m very ungrateful,” Carol stammered 
at last, but her downcast eyes would not meet her 
companion’s. 

“Of course you’re not,” he broke in sincerely. 
“Stratini says you’re wonderful, and I’m sure we’re all 
glad of the chance to help him help you. . . .” 




114 


THIS WOMAN 


“And he is helping me . . . marvelously !” she 
praised with sudden spirit. “I’ve never imagined a 
man could perform such a miracle. I hardly know 
myself ... I can’t believe it’s I when I hear the notes 
he coaxes from my throat. If it wasn’t for the joy of 
it, there are times when I feel that I couldn’t go on.” 

“Oh, come!” he protested. “Discouragement is only 
natural. Everyone’s blue now and then; but think of 
the triumphs later . . . the days when we’ll all be 
proud to sit in our boxes and listen, and rejoice that 
the little we’ve had the chance to do has aided in 
training a voice to sing so sweetly. . . .” 

“It isn't a little—all that you’re doing!” she insisted 
earnestly. “It is everything! And perhaps the great¬ 
est thing of all, I owe to you. That’s why I was per¬ 
fectly horrid in what I said just now.” 

“If you said something you didn’t mean ... I 
guess I didn’t catch it . . .” he lied lamely. 

“Oh, yes, you did!” she exclaimed, impatient with 
him. “Please don’t treat me like a child for whom 
you’re sorry! You’re all that way . . . willing to 
overlook and forgive ... to accept me without asking 
questions . . . that is, all but Stratini . . .” 

“And by that you mean . . . just what?” he asked, 
a trifle uneasily. 

“By that I mean that I’m a fool!" she reproached 
herself bitterly. “I’ve broached a subject I can’t dis¬ 
cuss . . . not with any of you . . . yet, sometimes, 
I wish I might.” 

“Then why don’t you?” he asked quietly. 

“I can’t.” 

“Would you really like to?” 

She nodded. 

“I think you’d find me sympathetic,” he urged 
gently. “And of course, whatever you tell me would 
be entre nous." 

She smiled ... a bitter expression that hardened 





THIS WOMAN 


115 


the lines of her mouth . . . and the nervous jerk she 
gave to the bit annoyed her mount. 

“Tell me something!” she demanded suddenly, turn¬ 
ing in her saddle and facing him squarely. “Just why 
did you suggest this unique idea of making a corpora¬ 
tion of me?” 

They were back on the bridle path again, far down 
under the wall of the street above, and he drew his 
horse a little closer to the side of hers, so that their 
boots squeaked as the leather touched, and his spur 
jangled against hers. 

“You mean, honestly?” he asked, seemingly lost in 
his thoughts. 

“Naturally!” she replied impatiently, but she did 
not turn her horse from his side. 

“There were two reasons,” he told her at last, “and 
it’s a little hard to divorce one from the other; but 
perhaps I can make that clear to you.” 

For a moment they rode on in silence, and the horses, 
blinking their eyes, wagged their heads and swished 
their tails like two mechanical toys. 

“So far as you are concerned,” he went on at last, 
“I guess it came about because of my frame of mind 
. . . and I rather suspect that my uncle had something 
to do with it. . . .” 

“You mean you thought that the Rector wouldn’t 
approve if I’d remained without some such arrange¬ 
ment ?” 

He nodded. “You don’t know my uncle, and I’m 
rather glad you don’t. It requires a contented mind 
to bear with him . . . yet he’s doing the best he knows 
how. However, he’d just been horrified by a number 
of things that Stratti and Aline had done to tease him. 
Then Gram Bleeker got potted and made a fool of 
himself, and I was elected to cart him home. Well, on 
the way, I got to thinking that a lot of things aren’t 
fair. Much as he disapproved, the poor dominie 
couldn’t flay them too hard. Stratti makes his own 




116 


THIS WOMAN 


laws . . . and some of them are excellent; Aline does 
as she pleases, because she’s above suspicion ... or 
at least, she thinks she is. Bleeker, because of his 
family and what’s left of his money, is going to hell 
very pleasantly in spite of everybody. . . .” 

“ You’re not a minister, are you?” Carol could not 
help asking, humorous little wrinkles gathering close 
to her eyes. 

“No . . . and I’m not moralizing,” Whitney smiled. 
What I’m getting at is that no matter what some of 
us do, we’re immune . . . our position and our for¬ 
tunes make us so. Maybe we’ve a right to do as we 
like, and maybe we haven’t. I don’t know . . . don’t 
know that I care . . . but you must admit that with 
others . . . especially with women . . . certain con¬ 
ventions must be observed.” 

“They’re not —always,” Carol reminded him. 

“Then beggars ride . . . usually to their fall,” he 
observed, as two smartly togged women rode by. “But 
when you came in, and I saw Stratini’s interest, I pic¬ 
tured what the papers would say if he made you his 
protege. Stratti’s true blue to the core . . . but a 
lot of his little songbirds mate entirely too often . . . 
and, while thinking people pet them, they don’t as a rule 
take them into the heart of the family circle.” 

“Are you preparing to place me outside that magic 
ring?” Carol asked, cuttingly. 

“You know I’m not!” he defended. “I did what I 
did to give you a standing inside it . . . to silence 
tongues that only wag to stir up trouble. I saw that 
you didn’t trust us . . . and I couldn’t blame you . . . 
then the thought of incorporation flashed across my 
mind.” 

“As a sort of flaming sword between me and Stra- 
tini?” she said sarcastically; “to safeguard me against 
my own weakness, my undoubted willingness to yield 
to temptation!” 

Her eyes were flashing, and the gloved fist that held 




THIS WOMAN 


m 


the reins, clenched them tighter. She wanted to strike 
him across the cheek with her riding whip! And then 
her arm fell limp at her side. What a fool she was 
not to appreciate the wonderful thing he had done 
. . . the thoughtfulness that she was on the brink of 
hating him for. 

And now he countered by granting that she was 
not entirely wrong in her surmise. “There’s another 
side of it,” he said. “The one you mentioned. Take 
Bleeker and myself, for instance. We’ve had every¬ 
thing . . . always. No school has been closed to us 
. . . even in the public one of experience, we could 
take the full course. If we couldn’t be what we 
wanted to be, there was no excuse for us. We’d the 
money to further our aims, and were free to choose what 
vocations we liked. Yet I’ve seen lots and lots of men, 
whose gifts were greater than ours, barred from the 
places they deserved because they couldn’t afford to 
go on with the work they loved.” 

“You overlook those who succeed in spite of their 
handicaps,” she objected. “Stratini came from nothing 
... at least from the last of an impoverished noble 
line.” 

“Which is perhaps a worse start than springing 
from peasant stock!” Whitney admitted. “But Stra¬ 
tini, like all self-made men, believes in struggle . . . 
in suffering . . . recommends them as a sort of pan¬ 
acea for everything. As far as a man’s concerned, 
perhaps he’s right . . . but for a woman, it’s hard to 
wade through the mud without smirching her skirts.” 

“You believe it’s impossible?” she tested him. 

“Practically,” he answered frankly. “In a career 
where success must be captured early, before beauty 
fades and worry brings wrinkles, some compromise is 
almost essential . . . thanks to the rotten viewpoint 
of a cynical world. But all that’s only the basis of 
my theory . . . the rest is a personal hobby, a ven¬ 
ture I’ve always wanted to try. . . .” 




118 


THIS WOMAN 


“A sort of experiment ... in which Vm the sub¬ 
ject?” 

“In which you seem to be the proof that my diagnosis 
of the trouble is sound,” he smiled. “I formed the 
company—you’re making good—and the investment’s 
going to pay us all dividends in satisfaction as well as 
in currency. What could be fairer than that?” 

“You’re laughing at me!” she chided . . . irritably. 

“I’m not. Let me prove it. I’ve always thought 
that most women pay too much to attain their am¬ 
bitions. Maybe they marry men they don’t love . . . 
and maybe they pay in some other way. I’m speaking 
of women who mu#t have some capital to gain their 
ends ... as in your case, for example. Now, granted 
a girl has the talent and the ambition . . . the will¬ 
ingness to work . . . and the desire to remain un¬ 
sullied. How is she going to go about it . . . remem¬ 
bering, as I say . . . that she simply must have 
money ?” 

“I think,” said Carol slowly, “I’m beginning to 
understand.” 

“Of course you are,” he told her. “The sum we’ve 
all subscribed was essential, but it was only a portion 
of what you needed to come through clean. Your posi¬ 
tion with Mrs. R.-S. and Aline makes up the deficit. 
And what’s the result? You’ll be hailed as a great 
diva before you’re thirty . . . you’ll pay back the cost 
of your training out of your subsequent earnings, and 
there won’t be a single soul . . . not even my dear, 
doubting uncle . . . who can hint the slightest scandal 
concerning you.” 

They had come to the end of the path and the 
horses had stopped of their own accord, forgotten by 
their riders. A park guard stared at the two, and 
smiled in his sleeve. Then he coughed to suggest that 
they’d better be moving. Traffic regulations forbade 
blocking the way. Without speaking, Carol turned 




THIS WOMAN 


119 


her horse, and Whitney’s followed as she cantered 
thoughtfully away. 

Along where the road sinks between mossy banks 
and the trees overarch the path, his mount drew close to 
Carol’s, and she turned to him with a wondering look 
in her serious eyes. 

“Just why did you do this for me?” she asked him 
softly. 

Half hestitating, he bowed his head as he tried to 
frame a reply; then impulsively, he threw his arm about 
her and drew her to him hungrily. “Because ... !” 

But her lithe form stiffened, and her crop cracked as 
she struck him, just as she had been tempted to do on 
the East Drive. “Because what you’ve said isn’t 
true!” she cried out in her fury, and the startled 
horses began to prance about nervously, shocked at 
the sudden rift between the two. “You only wanted 
to chain me legally—with your careful nonsense about 
incorporation ... to bind me without binding your¬ 
self! You wanted to give me a social status which 
would protect you in your little scheme. At least 
Stratini was frank in what he proposed, and Gramercy 
does not pose as my social mentor. But you want 
me to cheat the others—to accept the sponsorship of 
Mrs. R.-S. and Aline, so that your relations with me 
may seem respectable!” 

Her face was white and her nostrils quivered as she 
lost all control of herself, and Whitney, too dazed to 
intervene, sat his saddle silently. “Oh, you canting, 
kindly reformer!” she taunted vehemently. “Like 
uncle, like nephew, naturally! You’re so damned good 
that you must even sin sanctimoniously!” 

Then, as her eyes filled with burning tears, and her 
body trembled with uncontrolled emotion, she dug her 
spurs into her horse’s flanks and left him alone and 
disconsolate on the deserted road. It was more than 
she could bear—each of them doubting and preying— 
characteristically. But this revelation of Whitney dis- 




120 


THIS WOMAN 


gusted her utterly. Masking his stalking with virtue, 
he chose to play the more subtle game in the guise 
of a kindly protector! 

“Damn their protection!” she cried aloud in her an¬ 
guish, unconscious of the stares of passing equestri¬ 
ennes and the doubts of mounted policemen. ‘‘I’ll take 
every scrap that they give me, and put myself on a 
pinnacle from which even they can’t pull me! . . . 

. . . “And in return, I’ll give them . . . literally 
nothing at all!” Her laugh rang out through the trees. 




BOOK TWO 


I. 

With the removal of the Rhinebeck-Sturdevant 
household from Park Avenue to Newport, Carol grew 
vaguely conscious of a mental metamorphosis which 
startled her at first. Conscience seemed to have given 
way to a cold, calculating contempt. Nothing which 
had transpired prior to her ride with Whitney seemed 
to matter. She even regarded that incident as one to 
regret and forget rather than something to hide and 
brood about. Yet she did not hold herself blameless 
for giving way to her temper. 

Perhaps she had been wrong in judging the man. 
. . . Aline would not have regarded his attempt at 
saddle-petting as a heinous sin . . . and possibly 
Whitney had meant no more than that. But with Aline, 
the situation was different. Whitney’s caresses could 
offer her no affront; to Carol, his actions could sig¬ 
nify little else. That Whitney could think he loved 
her was absurd, and somehow, all he had said did 
not ring true. No great spirit of camaraderie had 
sprung up between them; although, if anything, her 
attitude toward him was one of admiration . . . tinged 
with disappointment. She told herself she preferred 
the bald brazenness of theatrical offices . . . the un¬ 
camouflaged proposition of Stratini . . . the indul¬ 
gent nonchalance of Bleeker. Whitney’s attitude was 
all too reminiscent of hypocritical charges, resulting 
in crudest suffering. 

Yet in her first contemplation of the misery their 
fracas had occasioned, Carol determined to write him 
a full confession. Alone in her room, still booted and 
121 


122 


THIS WOMAN 


spurred, she had dashed off page after page of con¬ 
trite apology. Then, in rapid succession, her mood 
altered from one of self-reproach and self-abnegation 
to a spirit of indignation ... of contemptuous con¬ 
demnation. In the end she burned each effort at the 
open grate of her boudoir and resolved completely to 
dismiss the matter from her mind. 

Whitney’s subsequent silence embittered her. The 
day after their quarrel he slipped away to Pinehurst, 
and Carol sought forgetfulness in her studies. If Stra- 
tini sensed the situation, he uttered never a word, 
and Mrs. R.-S. and Aline were equally unobservant and 
silent. Why not? Unless Whitney brought up the 
subject, the others would never suspect what had trans¬ 
pired between them. And needless to say, Whitney 
would hold his peace. 

So Carol’s viewpoint gradually changed. Not once 
did she relax her reserve or give evidence of any aban¬ 
doned independence, yet the fears which had haunted 
her gradually disappeared. Hardly realizing her at¬ 
titude, she stifled every emotion save that of selfish 
ambition. She would strive and slave and sing until 
the laurels were hers . . . and then she would laugh 
at them. Yet, struggle on as she might, she secretly 
hated herself, and because of that very discontent, she 
worked all the harder. 

Her painstaking efforts to please Stratini left the 
impresario no ground for complaint. He was as 
wrapped up in her progress as was Carol herself. Yet 
with a maestro’s cunning, he divined a development 
which could not be due to him. Not suspecting its 
source, he delighted in the result of her secret suffer¬ 
ing . . . her new spirit of defiance . . . her indom¬ 
itable determination to succeed. If she desired to 
become a golden-throated automaton—an emotionless, 
melodious statue, Stratini was quite content. And be¬ 
cause he was conscious of such a pretense on Carol’s 




THIS WOMAN 


123 


part, he let down the bars of his rigid restriction a 
trifle. 

In the last weeks of their stay in New York, he en¬ 
couraged Carol to rest ... to run about with Aline, 
and to purchase her summer wardrobe. He took her 
to a play himself, and urged a greater indulgence in 
the affairs of a fagging season. Carol shrugged and 
complied, with an air of ennui which inwardly amused 
him. He smiled at the ease with which she turned 
men’s heads and aroused fresh feminine envy. She 
became a sort of super-flapper, an artiste in embryo, 
viewing with tolerant unconcern each new evidence of 
ardent masculine worship. The superficial, metallic 
note in Aline’s make-up began to show itself in Carol’s 
manner; and in exchange, Aline grew to be what Stra- 
tini termed “up-stage.” He laughed as the two girls 
patterned themselves after each other’s example . . . 
perhaps without design, or perhaps with deliberate in¬ 
tent. In any event it was plain that they influenced 
each other. 

Outwardly, Carol was all he could hope. In the 
studio, she delighted him, and visually, the girl was 
growing exquisite. Her beauty might have brought her 
a dozen proposals, yet the impresario saw that Carol’s 
head was not turned by such homage. And while he 
was conscious of a twinge of her heart, he inclined 
to attribute the change to self-worship. That, too, 
was well enough. She might adore his own handiwork 
as much as she liked! The moment she should prove 
rebellious, he would shatter the image which pleased 
her, and show her that she was dependent upon his 
whims. Then, and only then, he would give the world 
a singer beyond compare. 

Yet Stratini did not regard himself as a Svengali. 
His attitude was far different . . . and his Trilby 
could sing—even without his aid . . . but what a sac¬ 
rilege it would be if she turned from his tutelage! In 
the hands of one less skilled, her efforts would only 




124 


THIS WOMAN 


prove commonplace . . . while he meant to make her 
a mellifluous marvel. This, however, he dared not as 
yet confess to Carol, while the outcome of his ven¬ 
ture still hung in the balance. 

Nevertheless, when Mrs. Rhinebeck-Sturdevant was 
settled at Newport, Stratini’s hopes arose to a higher 
pitch. The music room at Clifcleft was given over to 
him, and Carol’s suite overlooked the walk by the sea. 
There maestro and pupil might be alone without in¬ 
terruption, or, when misgivings seized him, he could 
suggest that they mingle with the guests who arrived 
and departed continually. In his enthusiasm, he aban¬ 
doned his plans of going abroad, and resignedly in¬ 
stalled himself at Clifcleft for the summer. 

July drifted into August, and Stratini was in the 
seventh heaven of satisfaction. His methods were prov¬ 
ing themselves, and Carol’s progress tickled his musical 
soul. For days, he would pose as a martinet, and drive 
his pupil relentlessly. Then he would soften and 
smile, and declare with the greatest good nature, that 
Carol had earned and must take a little more recrea¬ 
tion. These interludes were planned with consummate 
shrewdness, when the guests of Mrs. R.-S. were certain 
to be diverting—not only to his pupil, but to him¬ 
self. He chose the gayest gatherings, and made him¬ 
self their life, not forgetting to see that Carol shared 
his activity. Week after week, he sowed the seed of 
social ambition, and inculcated in Carol a sense of 
patrician pride. Since marriage did not attract her as 
yet, she could only hope to maintain her position 
through greater effort . . . for operatic failure would 
doom her to disgrace in the eyes of these people. Carol 
instinctively realized the need, and Stratini encouraged 
her efforts to hold their favor. So those who met her 
gladly accepted Carol and spurred her to strive all the 
harder, through flattery half sincere, and praise partly 
selfish—based on Stratini’s estimate of Carol’s po¬ 
tential greatness. 




THIS WOMAN 


125 


Then, toward the end of the season, the maestro 
rested a bit, and declared a semi-holiday in reward 
for Carol’s devotion. Estelle and Freddy Delancey 
were coming up for a fortnight, and the two were 
bringing Schuyler Tremaine in their motor. Aline had 
invited a fluttering flock of flappers, and in their wake 
would arrive a troupe of dancing men. A shipment 
of genuine Scotch had prompted an invitation to 
Gramercy Bleeker, and Mrs. R.-S. announced that she 
had prevailed upon Whitney Duane to spend a few 
days with them. 

The news startled Carol out of her new-found calm, 
and Stratini had been quick to note her change of de¬ 
meanor. Here indeed was something his eye had over¬ 
looked, and he chuckled as he berated his crass stu¬ 
pidity. Yet even now it would be as well to watch 
this little affair, when he opened wide for a time the 
gates of his songbird’s cage. Whitney, he felt, would 
prove a harmless wooer, and if he should interfere 
with the impresario’s plans, Stratini could readily send 
him packing. As an Incorporator, he was amenable 
to the manager’s will. 

Carol, however, kept her room on the afternoon 
when Whitney was due to arrive. She somehow sensed 
that his coming would mean the end of his silence, and 
she wished to marshal her forces to deal with him. 
If he should prove repentant and slightly sentimental, 
their meeting was bound to prove unpleasant for her. 
If, on the other hand, he chose to remain aloof, she 
would breathe a sigh of relief; but with a bitter smile, 
she anticipated still a third attitude. Suppose he 
should prove sarcastic or accusing? Inconceivable in 
one of Whitney’s nature, this was not impossible. And 
she told herself that if such proved the case, she would 
meet him on his own ground. 

The others had come the night before, and Freddy 
Delancey proposed an aerial variation of a bathing- 
suit celebration. His hydroplane had preceded him 




126 


THIS WOMAN 


as well as his fame as a fusser, and the flappers flitted 
about him, eager for a flirtation and a ride in the light 
of the moon, for Freddy was regarded as a harmless 
romantic devil. Stratini approved the plan and chose 
the principal part in the pageant Freddy was staging. 
The impresario was to be the Neptune of the Air, and 
Freddy, dressed as a Martian, proposed to act as his 
pilot. 

The costume ordered for Carol startled her some¬ 
what, yet she rather relished her role as a Siren. Sing¬ 
ing aboard the plane in which Neptune would arrive, 
she was to summon mere “mortals” down to the surf. 
After that they would dance on the sands and disport 
themselves in the sea, while Delancey would soar above 
their heads and shower the bathers with flowers. Just 
because of the novel tinge to the program, everyone 
was as eager as a kid for the revel. Carol hailed it 
with delight, but, on hearing of Whitney’s coming, a 
consciousness of misgiving began to possess her. Ap¬ 
pearing as a Mermaid would really be her premiere 
in the realm of make-believe, and she had been speculat¬ 
ing all day as to how her entrance would be received. 
She meant to sing as she had never sung before, not 
merely to show Stratini what she could do, but be¬ 
cause her pent-up emotions craved the relief of such 
a lark. Standing before her glass, she had imagined 
herself in fact what she pretended to be . . . and she 
found it fun. And for an hour she practiced alluring 
gestures, worthy of a bewitching fabled Lorelei. 

Now she recoiled from the role . . . but soon, with 
a flash of anger, she resolved to make her interpreta¬ 
tion even more realistic than she had at first intended. 
She would triumph in spite of Whitney ... in spite 
of them all. She would show them that she could act 
as well as sing, and what was more, she would dem¬ 
onstrate that she did not care in the least what Whit¬ 
ney or anyone else might think of her. As an artiste , 
they must hail her. She would make them gasp at 




THIS WOMAN 


127 


her daring when she revealed her talented beauty. 
Then, if this sanctimonious, pussyfooting reprobate 
pretended to be shocked in public, he might do so and 
be damned! 

Yet Carol’s determination oozed as she looked from 
her window, attracted by the sound of a roadster run¬ 
ning up the driveway. Peering through the chintz 
hangings, she saw Judson directing two footmen to 
carry the luggage, and caught a glimpse of Aline in a 
sports suit, greeting them on the terrace. Gramercy 
Bleeker was draping himself against the side of the 
car, as he fished for a match for his briar, and clamber¬ 
ing from beneath the wheel was Whitney. 

For a moment, Carol thought his eyes met hers, and 
she drew back in alarm, a flush coming over her fea¬ 
tures as she loathed herself for her weakness. But the 
reaction of seeing him was stronger than she had im¬ 
agined, and with a miserable sigh, she threw herself 
on the bed. Almost forgotten pains clutched at her 
heart, and visions, practically vanished, flashed across 
her brain. It was not the thought of her blow in 
the park that tortured her now, but the memory of 
other events . . . longer ago . . . the things which 
prompted her anger that day, rather than Whitney’s 
kiss. 

But a knock at the door made her stifle her tears 
in the pillow, and pretending to be aroused from a nap, 
Carol called out a sleepy answer. In trouped a group 
in negligee, followed by two silent maids bearing liquid 
refreshment, bonbons and cigarettes. In the lead was 
Estelle Delancey, wielding a long jade holder in lieu 
of a marshal’s baton, her dark eyes sparkling mis¬ 
chievously as she nodded to Carol. 

“Come out of it!” she commanded, as the servants 
withdrew. “We’re here for a serious pow-wow. If 
you want tea, better order it . . . we’re all having 
rickeys.” 

In an instant the room resembled a fabulous nabob’s 




128 


THIS WOMAN 


harem, and the favorites curled themselves in the win¬ 
dow seats, or squatted on cushions against the walls, 
crosslegged. With a yawn, Estelle stretched herself 
languorously upon a chaise-longue , her filmy, lacy robe 
revealing each lithe line of her figure. Her wealth of 
Titian hair and the touch of red at the lobes of her 
ears made her appearance exotic, and she surveyed, 
with open approval, the alluring silken expanse of her 
long, slender legs. They were famous. Almost too 
thin to be lovely, yet somehow exquisitely beautiful in 
the delicacy of their molding, they were always plainly 
visible when Estelle was photographed. Having once 
been the flesh and bone of contention in a divorce pro¬ 
ceeding, Estelle had exhibited them to the jury from her 
place in the witness chair, and in so doing won com¬ 
plete exoneration and undue masculine adulation. She 
liked her legs and took no pains to conceal the fact or 
its cause. 

Carol contemplated them seriously . . . specula¬ 
tively . . . comparatively. Then, sitting up, she 
shrugged—line for line, her own gave her no cause for 
envy. Estelle’s features were too cynically hard to be 
lureful . . . and Estelle could not sing. Carol’s voice, 
charm and beauty would make her the belle of the 
evening. And perhaps it was that knowledge which 
caused Estelle to call her present council in the en¬ 
emy’s camp. Plainly she regarded Carol as a rival. 

“Behold the shock troops I” Estelle waved her cig¬ 
arette at the girls, who were giggling into their gin. 
“The purpose of this little gathering is to plan to 
pep up the petting this evening. We’re not going to 
be geese while our ganders have all the fun!” 

“I take it then,” smiled Carol, “that this is a protest 
meeting of neglected wives.” 

“Freely translated,” Doris Tilton explained, “it 
means that ’Stelle’s had a row with Freddy. She 
knows he’ll get all soused and sentimental, and instead 
of calling him down, she’s going to hold him up.” 




THIS WOMAN 


129 


“Which, further interpreted,” Ann Burton put in, 
“indicates that Estelle needs a new dinner ring or some 
such thoughtful trifle expressing Freddy’s affection.” 

Estelle shrugged, and, blowing a cloud of cigarette 
smoke from her delicate nostrils, crossed her ankles and 
clicked her high red heels. “Oh, Freddy’s due for a 
lesson, all right,” she admitted, “but it mustn’t be too 
severe. If he’d cut out his foolish affairs and his peace 
offerings stopped, I’d have to do without ever so many 
things!” 

“Naturally,” catted Lenoire Willing, “loving tribute, 
regularly received, is more satisfactory than delinquent 
alimony.” 

Estelle gave her a scowl and then ostentatiously fin¬ 
gered a glittering string of emeralds recently acquired. 
“Penance for Freddy’s flier in the movies,” she said 
with a smile of amused satisfaction. “Had himself ap¬ 
pointed to the board of censors and made a personal 
test of the decent length of a kiss.” 

“How’d you happen to know?” Doris Tilton asked, 
and Estelle laughed in answer. 

“It seems they actually shot the picture . . . 
Freddy and Vera Verdayne . . . and Anthony Ballou- 
more was out at the studio. I had luncheon with him 
at the Ritz, a day or two afterwards, and, like the good 
fellow he is, Tony brought me a still of the film. . . .” 

“A still with a kick, I’ll bet!” Ann Burton wagered. 

“It produced these emeralds,” Estelle confessed, 
“and Freddy now admits that the screen is immoral. 
But suppose we call the meeting to order. I don’t want 
to discourage him too much, but I think it’s time we 
registered protest adequately. The question is just 
what can we do to set our hubbies’ little angoras pranc¬ 
ing . . . without burning our fingers, of course?” 

“I’m going after Schuyler Tremaine,” Doris Tilton 
advised them. “He’s just back from Hawaii, and he 
ought to be full of the romance that’s linked with 
ukulele ladies. . . .” 





130 


THIS WOMAN 


“Help yourselfl” assented Estelle, inconsequentially. 
“I’m out for bigger game. If I want to make Freddy 
really jealous, I’ll have to go after Stratti . . . that 
is,” she added, maliciously sweet in her tone, “if Carol 
doesn’t mind.” 

Half jesting as she pointedly made the remark, 
Carol caught its serious undercurrent. The meaning 
flash in Estelle’s eyes aroused her ire. Yet her resent¬ 
ment was purely one of revulsion for the other’s tactics. 
She despised her for what she hinted. That the obvious 
charms of Estelle would appeal to Stratini had not 
dawned upon Carol, yet she assumed that beneath his 
skeptical, blase veneer, Stratini was thoroughly human 
in a virile, masculine way. She said as much to Estelle, 
disclaiming all personal knowledge, and found herself 
embarrassed at the silence in the room. 

Their evident attitude threw her into a fury, these 
women who were worse than the men with whom they 
openly flirted. Born to leisure and laughing at love, 
they mocked at the ties of marriage. And this in¬ 
sight into their instincts stirred Carol’s disgust. They 
seemed like glorified grafters, playing at being vam¬ 
pires, with their husbands as their victims. They ex¬ 
acted reparation for kisses they did not resent, and 
threatened retribution in kind if their males should 
prove too faithless. 

But Carol restrained her inward rage and calmly 
appraised Estelle. Rumors of separation were con¬ 
stant concerning her, yet she and her husband went 
carelessly on . . . disconsolate when they were parted 
. . . unhappy when they were together. Neither de¬ 
ceived the other, yet each dreaded a break, for mar¬ 
riage had its advantages and dissolution its dangers. 
Their wedded state gave them freedom and license to 
do as they liked, and Freddy seemed willing to pay 
to the full for Estelle’s wifely protection. Technically, 
too, the arrangement safeguarded her flirting, although 
no one could picture Freddy in the role of Nemesis. 




THIS WOMAN 


131 


Disinterestedly aware of the situation, thanks to the 
tattle sheets, Carol was none the less perturbed by all 
that Estelle suggested. Her deliberate slap at Carol 
cut like the lash of a whip. What they thought of 
her was obvious, despite her incorporation, and the 
knowledge made her more bitter as she dwelt once more 
on what Whitney had said. No matter what she had 
done in the past, no matter what she did now, they 
could not conceive of her holding Stratini’s interest 
solely through the magic of her wonderful voice. They 
even presumed to ask her permission to flirt in what 
were assumed to be her private preserves! Then anger 
gave way to amusement as Carol surmised how quickly 
Stratini would see through their wiles. 

“Well since you don’t mind, old dear,” Estelle was 
saying, “little Diana will go a-hunting again. Stratini 
should prove quite a feather, yet fairly safe for one’s 
cap, since affairs with him are condoned . . 

But she paused with embarrassed abruptness. Un¬ 
heard by Estelle, Aline had come into the room, and 
now she stool still on the threshold, staring at the 
speaker. Warning looks from the others silenced 
Estelle’s remark, and, regaining her composure, she 
waved a friendly hand to the daughter of her hostess* 
“We’re setting our caps for Stratti,” she altered her 
tone, avoiding Carol’s gaze, “and the purpose of this 
meeting is to plan a trap for him. Do give us a 
suggestion.” 

“I wouldn’t even presume to offer advice to yow,” 
Aline pretended deference to superior wisdom, yet there 
was no mistaking the flash of her eyes. “But I might 
say en passant , that when I sit in a game, I pause, at 
least, to give a thought to its probable limit.” 

“Then you mean that the play with Stratti is in¬ 
clined to be steep?” Estelle refused to give in. 

“I mean what I mean, old dear,” Aline said with a 
shrug, “and an old married woman like you ought to 
know what I’m getting at!” 





132 


THIS WOMAN 


“Touche!” cried Doris Tilton, hoping to head off the 
topic. “Out of the mouths of flappers and jazabelles 
comes infinite wisdom!” 

But Aline chose to ignore Estelle and sauntered over 
to Carol, lighting a cigarette and ringing for a maid. 
“Here I am with mj fiery tongue almost burned to 
a crisp, and I find these giddy guzzlers have mopped 
up all the gin. Now on the level, Carol, ain’t they per¬ 
fectly awful!” 

Her remark broke the tension, and also broke up the 
meeting, but as the others slipped off to dress, Aline 
remained, perching herself on the side of the bed, and 
sipping a fresh-made rickey. “I sometimes wonder,” 
she said at last, “why men want to get married. Wives 
are either too stupid or think they’re entirely too 
clever; but if ’Stelle Delancey doesn’t want a divorce, 
she’d better step a bit slowly.” 

“Do you think she meant what she said?” Carol put 
in softly, wondering whether Aline had heard the en¬ 
tire remark. 

“She’s mean enough to mean anything!” Aline said 
with contempt. “I don’t blame Freddy for flirting, 
and I never could understand what ’Stelle saw in him. 
But one of these days, her lanky legs’ll get her into 
trouble, if she doesn’t stop giving close-ups to every 
man she sees.” 

In spite of her recent resentment, Carol could not 
help laughing, and an inborn sense of fairness made 
her defend Estelle. 

“She can’t be as bad as she tries to pretend . . . 
and I doubt whether she’s as naughty as she thinks 
she is.” 

“Which is more or less the trouble with most of 
our senseless sex!” said Aline. “We either pose as 
Puritans when we’re on parade, and sneak our sins in 
secret; or else cut up capers in front of the crowd 
and wear flannel nighties in private!” 

“Is that what you do?” Carol could not help teasing. 




THIS WOMAN 


133 


“Oh, I’m as nasty a cat as the rest!” Aline blamed 
herself. “I’m a sneaky ’f raid-cat, too! Oh, Carol, I 
wish I were genuine . . . frankly on the level . . . 
that I could really want to be good . . . like you.” 

“Like meV Carol said. “How do you know I’m 
good?” 

“It’s perfectly simple!” Aline replied, with a saucy 
toss of her head, completely forgetting her ardent de¬ 
sire of an instant before. “You couldn't be bad since 
you’ve had no chance to be anything else but good.” 

“For which virtue, I take it,” Carol observed, “I 
can’t deserve much credit. . . 

“Well, at any rate,” Aline appraised, “you’re dif¬ 
ferent from lots of ladies who accept what Omar said 
much too literally . . . you know what I mean . . . 
that line where he says it’s better to fi take the cash 
and let the credit go.’ ” 

“But suppose I have taken the cash . . . and now 
I want the credit?” Carol tested her. “Suppose I’ve 
eaten my cake . . . and believe I can keep my penny?” 

“In that event,” laughed Aline, declining a serious 
answer, “I’ll make you a nice little bow, my dear, and 
ask for your recipe!” 




II. 


To Carol, the events of the early evening were more 
like a hazy dream than reality. Her impressions were 
fragmentary, fantastic . . . unreal. She knew her¬ 
self to be an integral part of what went on, yet some¬ 
how, she felt herself away from it all ... a spectator 
rather than a participant. Here and there little 
thumbnail pictures stood out with momentary clear¬ 
ness . . . colorful incidents . . . scintillating snatches 
of repartee . . . but the ephemeral threads of her 
vision refused to weave themselves into any sort of 
consecutive, tangible fabric. 

Descending to join the others in the living hall, her 
emotions were those of an actress making her entrance 
in a new play ... an actress not yet letter-perfect 
in her part . . . not even quite certain of the proper 
interpretation of her role. Yet she was cognizant of 
a new self-confidence ... a consciousness of power 
which had come from consulting her mirror a moment 
before. Pausing on the landing, she realized that its 
reflection had not been fulsomely flattering. 

Her appearance electrified the group of guests in 
the dim-lit living hall. She saw them glance up, noted 
their change of expressions . . . and knew that she 
dominated the scene. The thrill of triumph was new, 
yet not unwelcome ... a forerunner of greater domi¬ 
nation almost within her reach . . . and with it, her 
ambition took firmer hold. She was surer of herself 
. . . less concerned with the others and their opinion 
of her. And before the evening was over, she meant 
to establish herself. 

The besiegers of Judson’s cocktail-wagon ceased 
their senseless chatter, and Gramercy Bleeker paused 
134 


THIS WOMAN 


135 


in the midst of his witty nonsense. Schuyler Tremaine’s 
eyes ceased to caress Doris Tilton and looked at the 
girl on the stair with open admiration. Aline, with 
a poker from the fireplace, paused in an imitation of 
Freddy Delancey’s putting, and Estelle forgot her ef¬ 
forts to fascinate Stratini. 

The impresario arose hastily, said something by way 
of curt apology to his companion, and crossed the 
room to meet Carol. Half hesitating as he approached, 
she made a striking picture against the somber tapes¬ 
tried background of the stair. The severe lines of 
her black velvet gown accentuated the curves of her 
youthful figure, and her poise was perfect despite a 
tell-tale embarrassment. A collar of jade clasped her 
throat and set off its delicate contours, and Stratini’s 
eyes sparkled as they relished the delicate tints of her 
olive-ivory flesh. 

With foreign courtliness, he bent to brush her finger¬ 
tips with his lips, and the compliment he murmured 
brought fresh color to her cheeks. Vaguely, Carol 
caught the resentful sneer on Estelle Delancey’s fea¬ 
tures, and observed the knowing nod she exchanged 
with Doris Tilton. Stratini’s desertion of Estelle 
and his open devotion to Carol were pregnant with 
meaning to those who had gathered to gossip in Carol’s 
boudoir that afternoon. 

Carol sensed their affectation of scorn and superior 
wisdom, and the spirit of conflict blazed in her breast. 
Her body grew rigid, and she threw back her head in 
defiance, well aware that her challenge was understood. 
Then something within her snapped under the women’s 
stares and the sophisticated scrutiny of half a dozen 
men. Knowing what they thought of Stratini’s kiss, 
his salute seemed to sear her hand. Again she felt 
herself judged for what she was not. This time the 
experience was different, yet it hurt her none the less, 
and she was torn between a desire to cry out and an 
impulse to retreat. Eager to rush back to her room, 




136 


THIS WOMAN 


she turned in bewilderment; but Mrs. R.-S.’s presence 
blocked her path of flight. Charming in her assured 
composure, Carol’s sponsor gave her a sustaining smile, 
and gradually Carol’s panic gave way to a sense 
of security. 

But her heart was pounding wildly, and she tried 
to choke back her tears . . . tears which blurred a 
vision of Whitney Duane, sitting, silent and thought¬ 
ful, at the foot of the stairs. Aline, standing on tiptoe, 
reached over the balustrade, holding out a cocktail, 
and Carol heard Gramercy Bleeker proposing a toast 
to her. 

Happiness surged through her veins like potent wine, 
haunting fears vanished, and the present laughed at 
the past. No matter what the others thought, Mrs. 
R.-S. understood. Stratini, too, was proud of her, and 
she dared not disappoint him. This was to be her 
evening . . . the night for which she had longed . . . 
and only the future counted . . . despite the price she 
must pay in the eyes of public opinion. After all, these 
others were only her audience, curious and envious . . . 
utterly unimportant personally. When her triumph 
came she could afford to ignore them, and before this 
evening was over she would have them at her feet. If 
she failed, the folly would be her fault . . . but she 
did not mean to fail. 

Then, with the nonchalance of a finished artiste , she 
smiled and bowed her thanks, accepting their homage 
as though it were her due, yet with a proper note 
of modest appreciation which only tended to make 
them more enthusiastic. But gradually the stimulation 
of her elation began to wane. Carol thought the din¬ 
ner would never end, and through it all she was dimly 
conscious of Whitney’s presence at her side. She 
hardly recalled greeting him, nor could she have re¬ 
peated a single word he said. Not once had his man¬ 
ner suggested the rift between them, and Carol was 
grateful for his considerate reserve. When he spoke, 




THIS WOMAN 


137 


she answered, yet her voice sounded far off, as though 
someone else replied in her stead. What she told him 
she did not know, nor could she fathom his thoughts, 
yet she was glad there had been no time for a tete-a- 
tete. 

Alone in her room once more, she wondered if she 
was awake. A maid was busy adjusting the shoulder 
straps of her Sea-Siren costume, and she was eager for 
the approaching fete. The shimmery, sheer creation 
transformed her completely. A bodice of chiffon and 
silver gave the effect of foam, and coral ornaments were 
entwined in her blue-black hair, falling in careless con¬ 
fusion over her glistening shoulders. The tight-fitting 
skirt with its tail-like train was of tropical green, 
covered with scale-like spangles which caught the glint 
of the light as she posed before the mirror. With each 
sinuous movement^ she pictured herself as a Mermaid 
in quest of men, and now, with a gay little laugh, she 
began to hum her lines with a subtle satisfaction. Soon 
she would be in the character and then her acting would 
tell! 

Eager as a child, she slipped down the servants’ stairs 
so as not to be seen. A maid threw a cloak about her 
and she tripped out to enter the waiting car. It was 
like a gay adventure, and she laughed as she saw Stra- 
tini seated against the cushions. With his artificial 
beard and his tinsel kingly crown, he looked very regal 
indeed as King of the Air and Sea. 

Carol trembled a little. It was almost as though 
her debut had come and she was about to step before 
the footlights of the opera at last. Stratini, recalling 
the great Pol Plan^n in his make-up, lent to the illu¬ 
sion of the stage, and his evident satisfaction stirred 
Carol deeply. Sitting in front with the chauffeur, 
wearing goggles and helmet, and looking like some 
gnome, Freddy Delancey was chatting about his plane, 
and explaining how he meant to land on the moonlit 
beach. A little timorously, Carol wondered whether 




138 


THIS WOMAN 


the man was sober enough to steer his craft while they 
should be in the air, and she did not relish the amorous 
glances he gave her. Still, the presence of Stratini 
gave her confidence, and she knew that a fall from the 
plane would hardly mean more than a drenching. 

As the car sped toward the hangars, other guests 
were gathering at Clifcleft, the lights and the purr of 
their motors filling the evening air. Within another 
hour the party would be in full §wing and Carol found 
her pulses racing madly. Elated, she let Stratini lift 
her from the machine and place her securely in the car 
of the hydro. Ponderously, he climbed in himself, 
clutching his Neptune’s trident and swearing over the 
hindrance of his wired silken wings, worn to personify 
majesty over the currents of air. 

On the silvered sands, great piles of driftwood 
burned, and as the plane soared blithely, Carol could 
see little groups of “mortals” wending their way to 
the beach. Faintly, above the whirr of the motor, the 
strains of a hidden orchestra drifted up to them, and 
against the rocks stood out the refreshment tents . . . 
silhouetted like some ghostly illicit encampment. 

Gayly upward, Delancey guided his craft, and Carol 
found herself thrilled by the novel sensation. Now the 
world seemed upside down, and the moon was crazily 
placed. She longed to leap out and tread the path 
it traced over the waves, swelling and sighing softly 
. . . now beneath, now above her. Then at Stratini’s 
signal, Carol began to sing, and her glorious voice rang 
out on the still night. Down, down, down, came the 
plane, with a rush and a roar that mingled with melliflu¬ 
ous notes ... a shock and a curtain of spray ... a 
laugh and the pounding of surf ... as the flying boat 
took the water . . . dashed crazily through the break? 
ers and shot to the smooth, moist strand. 

Stratini was standing up, clutching^ wire support, 
and now the notes of the orchestra mingled with Carol’s 
tones. Weirdly, the music sounded . . . softly mourn- 




THIS WOMAN 


139 


ful was her voice . . . and the Siren’s song seemed to 
lure all who heard to follow her to her lair. Then, in 
the glare of a searchlight, Carol stood revealed in the 
daring loveliness of her Lorelei costume. By her side, 
Stratini resembled some giant guard, warning men of 
the danger of listening to her lay; yet despite his 
ferocious appearance, there was not a man on the 
beach who would not have gladly gone down to the 
deepest submarine grotto at Carol’s tempting summons. 

She was conscious of their ardent admiration, and 
the applause which rang out was music in her ears. 
Then countless Naiads scampered down the beach and 
darted into the ocean, laughing and shouting wildly in 
welcome to Neptune’s daughter. Drenched by the 
spray, Carol shuddered as the balmy breeze blew her 
hair from her shoulders, and the light of the moon 
made her spangles glitter. She smiled as shouting men 
waved their hands to her and dashed off after the Sirens, 
determined to snare these beauties before they were lost 
in the sea. 

Lifting her in his arms, Stratini set Carol dq»ynn, a 
dripping, delicious figure, delighted, at the success of 
her bizarre reception. In the glare of the searchlight 
she almost felt nude, and a flush overspread her cheeks 
as she realized the revelation of charm her scanty attire 
permitted. Then, as the soft breeze wafted a chance 
remark to her burning ears, she wanted to cast herself 
in the sea or bury herself in the sand. 

“Wouldn’t our friend, the Rector, have the time of 
his life!” Gramercy Bleeker called out gayly to a com¬ 
panion. “He could build a sermon on this, and I know 
a damned good text . . .” 

You!” came a scoffing chorus. “Where on earth 
did you find it?” 

“In the Bible, kind sirs,” he answered. “Happen 
to have one about you? No? How come? Then lend 
me your ears and I’ll tell you—Matthew: ten, twenty- 
six, dearly beloved brethren! . . . ‘There is nothing 




140 


THIS WOMAN 


covered that shall not be revealed’—Fair enough for 
the dominie, what?” 

“For Heaven’s sakes, don’t suggest it!” Aline’s voice 
protested. “I understand he’s back in New York, and 
he might make use of it!” 

Carol stood trembling like a child, afraid to run or 
stand still. Her costume was nothing . . . more nor 
less . . . than she would have worn on the stage . . . 
yet here on the beach, propinquity made it seem al¬ 
most indecent. Then Aline stepped into the limelight, 
and Carol’s embarrassment ebbed. Aline might have 
been a blonde, little, bobbed-headed Cupid—if only she 
had possessed a bow and quiver. The frill which stood 
out from her waist made one think of a Kewpie, and 
only the two blue wings were lacking to make her the 
replica of a tiny china doll. 

“Oh, Carol!” she called as she gayly danced across 
the sand, “you were simply wonderful . . . and we’re 
all so proud of you! But you ought to have had some¬ 
thing on, up in the air in that plane! Gram, run up 
to the tents and fetch her a wrap right away.” 

Then Whitney Duane edged through the circle and 
proffered a silver flask. Stratini nodded to Carol, and 
she drained the little cup, shuddering as the brandy 
burned her throat; but its warmth was welcome in her 
veins, and the strong, smooth liquor filled her with the 
joy of living. Her costume was quickly forgotten, her 
embarrassment cast off, and as the hidden musicians 
struck up a dreamy air, she felt a desire to dance. 
Others were toddling on the beach, curious, exotic fig¬ 
ures, in daring, dripping costumes; and as Gramercy 
whirled Aline away, Whitney Duane caught Carol 
eagerly in his arms. 

He had not assumed a character, and dressed in a 
loungy sports suit, presented a curious contrast, clasp¬ 
ing this deep-sea creature in an enfolding embrace. 
Moving in rhythm to the haunting music, they seemed 
to be oblivious of all that went on about them, and 




THIS WOMAN 


141 


their bodies swayed as they glided in perfect harmony 
with the alluring air. Now Whitney heard her sigh 
softly, as Carol nestled close, and the perfume of her 
hair grew fragrant in his nostrils. Carol found ex¬ 
quisite content in the strength of his clasp, and she 
only thought of happiness and the glory of the night. 
She wanted to feel forever the bliss of the gentle caress 
in which Whitney hungrily held her, and she gloried 
in the ardor with which he crushed her to him. 

Dancing on as in a dream, they drifted away from 
the others, far up the beach where the shadow of giant 
cliffs wrapped them discreetly in shadows. Neither 
dared to speak, lest the spell should be broken, yet ten¬ 
der words were trembling on their quivering lips. Carol 
was like some eerie sprite, gracefully gliding over the 
silvered sands, and Whitney whirled her faster, in ca¬ 
dence with the pounding of his eager heart, pressed 
close against hers, and seeming almost a part of her. 
Then, in the ecstasy of the moment, he drew her up in 
his arms, holding her off the ground and kissing her 
rapturously. Confidently at last, he took the lips he 
longed for, knowing that she must care since she clung 
to him like that . . . abandonedly . . . willingly. 

With the warmth of his mouth against hers, Carol 
began to understand the cause of her misery . . . the 
emptiness of the weeks when he had kept away. Hav¬ 
ing lashed him did not matter now . . . she would have 
struck him again . . . she almost felt as though she 
wanted to hurt him. Yet, ghost-like, there arose the 
specter which made her tremble despite her content¬ 
ment : the specter before which he would recoil once she 
should point it out. She knew that Whitney knew 
she was not Stratini’s mistress ... no matter what 
Estelle and the other girls might hint. Yet she felt 
she must tell him the thing she dreaded most. Whether 
or not he believed her, she could not keep it back . . . 
and the story tried to force itself through the lips he 
kissed. Yet it was no use. . . . 





142 


THIS WOMAN 


Then, as she struggled inwardly, he let her go with 
a sigh. His hand caught her fingers and led her up 
the incline, over sharp jagged rocks which cut her 
silk-shod feet, and made him think that the cry of her 
conscience was only a physical hurt. She stumbled, 
and with a tender whisper, he caught her in his arms 
as he might have lifted a child. She buried her head 
in his shoulder, and felt him climbing on, lifting her 
to the summit where they could be alone. Now he was 
putting her down, sheltered from sight from below 
by a great, jutting crag; and quietly he curled him¬ 
self at her feet. Opening her eyes, she moodily stared 
at the sea, watching the dancing moonbeams tinting 
the rippling waves, and a sudden sense of regret made 
her draw back from him. 

“I’m sorry,” she murmured at last, averting her face 
from his, “I never should have let you . . . kiss me 
. . . like that. . . 

“You mustn’t misunderstand,” he caught her to him 
roughly, “I want you to know what I meant that day 
in the park-” 

“It isn’t that!” she said quickly, a little catch in 
her voice. ‘‘I’ve hated myself for that blow—more 
than a thousand times—not because I struck you—but 
because I had no right to resent what you did! And I 
wouldn’t have now,” she added, “if I didn’t know that 
you mean it!” 

She could not keep back the tears, but he did not 
grasp her meaning . . . perhaps it would not have 
mattered then, even if he had. Yet Carol was utterly 
miserable . . . unable to say any more. She had just 
implied what she dared not say, and she wished for 
the courage to leap from the rock into the depths of 
the sea. Happiness might not be there, but at least 
she ought to find peace. 

But before Whitney could answer her, she was 
startled by voices nearby. Stratini’s laugh rang out 
behind the rock at her elbow, and now she heard a faint 





THIS WOMAN 


143 


protest in the teasing tones of Estelle. “Don’t be 
6illy!” Estelle was saying, impudently, “you know no 
price is too great for something you really want! Since 
you really rule the stars, pick me just one from the 
heavens . . . then, if you like, I’ll honestly give you a 
worth while kiss!” 

Apparently her condition amused Stratini, but as 
he stepped in the line of Carol’s vision, he solemnly 
shook his head. “My stars are only a trust,” he an¬ 
swered Estelle, “a sacred treasure to guard for the 
patrons of the opera. Sometimes thieves break in and 
try to steal them from me . . . sometimes jealous ones 
attempt to dim their luster. Then I become a great 
ogre and strike relentlessly! My stars are the jewels 
of my crown, the symbols of my power. I do not bar¬ 
gain for them. Ask for the moon, my child, and I’ll 
gladly get it for you. Demand my head . . . and I 
give it cheerfully. . . 

“But suppose I want your heart?" Estelle insinuated. 

“Then you ask what I cannot give,” he told her very 
slowly, a sardonic light in his deep-set eyes. 

Scorning her eavesdropping, Carol hung upon his 
words. She wondered what he meant to say, and deep 
down in her heart, she trembled that Whitney might 
hear. He, too, was growing uncomfortable, but to an¬ 
nounce their presence would only make matters worse. 
It was better to sit in silence and wait till the others 
passed on; and Whitney resented, unreasoningly, this 
unexpected intrusion. Like Carol, he was aware of the 
boon Estelle was asking, and her veiled reference 
aroused his ire. Yet Whitney knew Stratini, and in¬ 
wardly he was content to let Stratini answer. 

Slowly they saw Estelle draw herself to her full 
height . . . her movement full of lure in its sinuous 
languor, as the silvery haze bathed her coppery hair. 
Her eyes were like tempting pools of fire, waiting to 
be awakened, and the jewels of her gorgeous girdle 
sparkled as she stepped a little away from him with 




144 


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undulating grace. She might have been an Egyptian 
queen, gloating over a captive as she led him on to 
destruction. 

“Why?” she breathed. Her carmined lips were close 
to his, and she held her hands outstretched, fingers 
raised and palms turned out, like Isis repelling a lover 
not yet completely enthralled. 

But Stratini did not answer. Instead they heard 
him laugh; then he caught the girl in his powerful 
arms. It seemed as though her frame must snap in the 
strain of his brutal embrace, but he only swung her 
from her feet and held her at arm’s length, like some 
giant, prehistoric male, appraising a coveted morsel. 

“Why speak of hearts?” he asked her cynically. 
“What has the heart to do with the taste of luscious 
lips? Your heart is not your own to give . . . yet 
you would like to have mine . . . not because you treas¬ 
ure it . . . but because it would amuse you. . . . 
Don’t struggle . . . you meant me to take this kiss 
. . . and this . . . and this . . . and this one! You 
wanted me to want it . . . but you thought you could 
withhold it! At most you were going to give me only 
a hint of passion ... a promise that would set my 
restless blood on fire.” 

He was kneeling, pinning her against the sands, 
struggling and kicking and trying to tear at his face 
with her long, pointed nails . . . but in his clutch she 
was as powerless as a child. Her eyes grew wild with 
terror, her face distorted with fear, and the scream she 
dared not utter died in her parched throat. Carol was 
trembling with apprehension, and she half sprang to her 
feet, but Whitney put a restraining hand on her arm. 

“You wanted me to bring you here!” Stratini’s deep 
tones thundered, and Estelle’s lids dropped beneath 
his angered gaze. “You meant to play with love . . . 
pretending to offer what women have sold since the 
world began . . . but, unlike an honest courtesan, you 
want to balk at your bargain . . . you tease a man to 




THIS WOMAN 


145 


take a kiss and then demand that he go! Bah! Your 
soul is too shriveled to understand what every prosti¬ 
tute knows! Content yourself with the petting of cal¬ 
low youths . . . and treasure the thing you like to 
call your reputation. It’s so utterly, foolishly worth¬ 
less—you couldn’t give it to me!” 

With a gesture of disgust, he arose and stared at the 
sea, ignoring the woman who cowered, clutching at the 
sand. She was sobbing as she dragged herself, di¬ 
sheveled, to her knees, and her eyes blazed as she quiv¬ 
ered and tried to find words of reproach. 

Just once, Stratini shrugged as he stared down at 
her, a contempt akin to loathing written upon his fea¬ 
tures. “Please . . . peace, peace!” he waved her from 
him. “You’re going to call me a brute, or some such 
banality. Instead, go back to your husband. Weep 
and wail when you tell him what Stratini has done! No 
doubt he will be amused. Flabby fool that he is, even 
the man you married knows that your sins are shams. 
That’s why the poor devil is miserable—because he 
can’t divorce you!” 

Then, without even looking back, he strode down 
the incline, humming a little air to himself, as Estelle 
watched his departure in speechless rage. In silence 
Carol watched the chastened woman, gasping and claw¬ 
ing wildly in her torment; and Carol knew it would not 
do to approach her now. Yet she felt the cruelty of 
Stratini’s callousness, and her sympathy swelled as she 
longed to go to Estelle. Then, conscious of Whit¬ 
ney’s ga,ze, she hung her own head, wondering what the 
man would think of her . . . . 

But his arm slipped gently about her, and cautiously, 
he drew her back into protesting shadow. “Don’t 
think too harshly of Stratti,” he whispered into her 
ear. “He only tried to teach her a needed lesson. I 
hope she’ll profit by it. Women like that are revolt¬ 
ing . . . neither one thing nor the other!” 

“But it’s horrible!” Carol exclaimed, subduing her 




146 


THIS WOMAN 


tone. “He shouldn’t have talked to her . . . like 
that!” 

“Why not?” Whitney defended. “It’s time she re¬ 
alized it ... a man may give his heart to a woman 
who gives him her all . . . but he’s bound to despise 
a girl who cheats when it comes to cheating!” 

“You mean that you would care more for a 
girl . . . ?” the words froze on her tongue, and, 
trembling uncontrollably, she drew away from him. 

“I mean,” said Whitney slowly, “that Estelle’s a 
lucky woman. Another man might have taken what 
she meant to keep . . . and, in taking it, have reviled 
her! Stratti told her the truth ... as few men could 
have done it. I sometimes wonder, dear, if you really 
know Stratini.” 




III. 


The driftwood fires on the beach burned low, and the 
orchestra was hushed, but shouts and laughter floated 
back to the Rhinebeck-Sturdevant cottage. Here and 
there shadowy figures stood out in the waning moon¬ 
light, still dancing and playing pranks in the gray of 
approaching dawn, and a score of motors were parked 
where chauffeurs slumbered, waiting for guests who 
lingered. 

But Carol was far too weary to rejoin the groups 
on the sand, and Whitney, sensing her mood, walked 
by her side in silence. She freed her arm from his . . . 
not in anger, but gently . . . and he did not again at¬ 
tempt to touch her. The scene she had witnessed un¬ 
willingly seemed to have deadened her sense of awak¬ 
ened joy, and now he had not even the courage to take 
her hand. He knew that the slightest physical contact 
would have filled her with horror, and Whitney was 
disgruntled because of what she had seen. 

Yet, in a way, he was glad. He did not in the least 
like the Delanceys’ presence at Clifcleft, for he loathed 
their sort and the things they stood for. In fact, he 
rather wondered why Mrs. Rhinebeck-Sturdevant asked 
them to be her guests. Everyone was discussing them, 
with an amused contempt, and he speculated as to how 
much longer they would find themselves welcome. Of 
course he knew that Estelle and Aline had been 
chums at finishing school. He knew, too, that Mrs. 
R.-S. never frowned upon folly until it grew to be more 
than heedless foolishness. Yet it seemed to him that in 
the Delanceys’ case, too much tolerance might be worse 
than too little. But he promptly dismissed the 
thought, vaguely attributing it to a latent loyalty to 
his uncle’s narrow views. 


147 


148 


THIS WOMAN 


Which reminded him . . . now that Doctor Duane 
had returned, it was time to speak of Carol . . . yet 
first, of course, he would have to speak to her. He 
had meant to this evening. Now it would not do; in 
fact, if he mentioned the matter further, his words 
would hurt rather than help his cause. He would have 
to make her understand the Rector’s attitude, for he 
was morally certain the Rector would think her im¬ 
moral. A girl of unknown antecedents, destined to 
sing on the stage, would be bound to prove offensive 
to him as the wife of a Duane; and unless the Rector 
should marry, Whitney was likely to be the last of his 
line. Rather than see the name perpetuated at the 
cost of an unknown alliance, the minister would no 
doubt prefer that Whitney be childless; yet this was 
all sheer nonsense, Whitney told himself. 

The Rector had married Estelle and Freddy Delan- 
cey; if he stood for them he had no ground on which 
to object to Carol! And Whitney did not mean to 
yield if Carol was willing. Yet he knew what a battle 
impended. She might not care to face it. 

They were on the deserted walk through the dew- 
bathed formal garden, and just ahead the cottage 
loomed like some ghostly castle. Shaded lights lit the 
veranda, and from the upper windows a glow here and 
there announced a retiring guest. Carol would have 
paused to rest by the pergola, but voices warned the 
two that someone was there. Whitney was not sure, 
but he thought he caught a glimpse of Freddy Delan- 
cey, and he was certain the other costume belonged 
to Dons Tilton. Idiots! Whitney would have liked 
to give them a bit of his mind; then he wondered if he 
would be constant when he should be married. He 
rather thought he would . . . hoped so, anyway . . . 
but then, perhaps, it depended a great deal upon one’s 
marriage. These two made rather a farce . . . and 
then he recalled Estelle and Stratini. When he thought 
of that woman, he only loved Carol the more. 




THIS WOMAN 


149 


Now, at the foot of the steps leading to the ter¬ 
race, Carol turned and gave him her hand. The tips 
of her fingers were cold, and he saw her body tremble, 
not with the chill of approaching day, but because she 
was nervous. He could not blame her and he longed 
to take her in his arms ... to comfort her as he might 
a weary child . . . but most of all he wanted to hold 
her close and tell her that he loved her . . . that all 
the world might be rotten—but not his regard for her. 
He thought she would understand ... be happier if 
she knew. 

But what she said surprised him . . . routed his 
resolution to tell her after all. 

“Whitney,” his name came very slowly, “I’ve 
been wondering something . . . something rather 
terrible. . . .” 

He felt relieved . . . she was only distraught . . . 
it could not be serious. 

“Yes?” he said indulgently, not even trying to draw 
her closer. 

“It’s about Aline,” she went on, without withdraw¬ 
ing her hand, “you don’t suppose . . . Aline’s like that 
. . . do you?” 

“Naturally not!” he assured her. “Aline’s a true 
little sport . . . she’s the sort who could go through 
the jungle—alone with a man and a nigger guide—and 
no one would even think such a trip peculiar.” 

“I’m glad,” was all she said, and slowly she turned 
away, mounting the steps as he watched her worship- 
ingly. 

“Carol!” he called, “Carol!” But she only quick¬ 
ened her pace. He wanted to dash after her, but some¬ 
thing held him back. Then the roar of a roadster 
dinned in his ears. Judson came out on the upper 
veranda, alert in spite of his guiding fuddled guests 
to their respective chambers, and Whitney saw Carol 
pause by the porte-cochere. The long low car with its 




150 


THIS WOMAN 


cold, white lights, rushed between them, and Whitney 
glimpsed Gramercy Bleeker handling the wheel. 

“Something wrong?” he called, and leaped forward 
as a woman’s screams shrilled on the morning air. 

“Last contingent of casuals!” Bleeker chuckled and 
swung himself from the seat. “ ’Stelle Delancey’s got 
shell shock . . . listened too long to the naughty 
things the wild waves have been whispering.” 

Schuyler Tremaine stepped from the side seat, and 
the two tried to left the limp woman between them. 
With a polo coat enveloping her tattered Egyptian 
costume, Estelle made a pitiful figure as she darted 
from their grasp. Lashing them with her spiteful 
tongue and flailing with her arms, she staggered to¬ 
ward the steps, laughing hysterically . . . uncon¬ 
scious of what she said . . . unaware of what she was 
doing. Her strength was almost uncanny. 

The two men turned to Whitney, perplexed to know 
what to do, and instinctively his gaze met Carol’s. He 
read the pity in her face, knew the cold fear that had 
seized her . . . then he saw her hasten down the steps. 

“Estelle . . . please !” she begged, catching the girl 
by the arm, entreating her to be still. Figures in dress¬ 
ing gowns peered down from the windows, and Whit¬ 
ney heard Freddy Delancey coming along the walk. 
Doris Tilton was not with him, having decided it wiser 
to stay where she was for the present. At best it 
would be a nasty scene, and when Estelle had been 
drinking like this her fancies were sure to run riot. 
Now she was staring at Carol in a dazed sort of re¬ 
sentment. “Well?” she demanded, and her features 
took on an expression of unreasoning fury. “What do 
you want, you . . .” 

But her husband caught her rudely and shook her 
into silence. “Shut up, you fool!” he snarled. “Do 
you want the whole house to know you’re crazy soused!” 

Estelle shrugged drunkenly. “Take her away!” she 
sneered and would have fallen if Whitney had not 




THIS WOMAN 


151 


caught her as she lurched. Then she straightened up 
and her slender fingers clenched as her eyes blazed at 
Carol with insane hatred. “Oh, I know you!” she 
screamed at the top of her lungs in a frenzy, “I heard 
that woman bawl you out on the steps of the Plaza!” 

Carol drew back as from a slap in the face, and 
Whitney heard Bleeker swear as he stepped between 
the two women. “Grab her and put her to bed!” he 
advised Helancey. “She doesn’t know what she’s say¬ 
ing . . . she’s making a fool of herself!” 

“I know it!” moaned Freddy helplessly, “but what 
am I going to do? Take hold and help me get her into 
the house.” 

“Oh, don’t . . . you mustn’t!” Carol cried out in 
agony. “Whitney! They’re hurting her!” And push¬ 
ing the men aside, she knelt by Estelle, as the crazed 
girl fell exhausted upon the lawn. 

That ended her tirade, and as he lit a cigarette, 
Bleeker sighed with relief. He did not know Estelle 
had been near on that afternoon when Carol had fainted 
and he had come to the rescue, but Estelle’s tongue was 
cruel enough when she was perfectly sober, and he did 
not desire her to tell all she knew when she was out 
of her mind. 

“Don’t bother,” he whispered to Carol, “she won’t 
remember a thing she said when she wakes up in the 
morning. . . 

“Oh, it isn’t that!” Carol said, with a grateful look, 
“it’s the fact that she knows . . . and . . . perhaps 
. . . she knows the truth. . . .” 

“Then tell it and beat her to it!” Bleeker advised, 
as Freddy and Whitney lifted the senseless form. “No- 
body’d take any stock in anything she said . . . and 
besides, you mustn’t forget that I was there that day. 
Whatever she says, I’ll deny it—if you want me to.” 

“I wonder . . . whether I do !” Carol said piteously, 
and stared up the steps after Whitney almost hope¬ 
lessly. She could hardly comprehend a nature like 




152 


THIS WOMAN 


Estelle’s, and she knew that her own lips were sealed 
as to what she had seen on the beach. If she even so 
much as hinted of what she knew to Estelle, Mrs. De- 
lancey would hardly dare to attack her again, yet 
Carol was fully aware that she would not wield such a 
weapon. Whitney, no doubt, would discount whatever 
Estelle might say, and Stratini would take her state¬ 
ments with a grain of salt; yet Stratini himself had un¬ 
wittingly made Estelle her bitterest enemy ... or 
had it been, she wondered —quite unwittingly. She 
was not sure that he had not done it deliberately—for 
the pitting of Estelle against her would appeal to his 
sense of humor. 

And now from around the corner, the impresario 
came, smiling behind the frown that he turned upon 
Carol. How long Stratini had been there she could 
not know. 

“What in ten thousand devils are you doing out 
here?” he fairly roared with astonished rage. “Are 
chills and colds of no consequence that you stay out of 
doors all night?” 

“I’m sorry,” said Carol, hanging her head, “I was 
just about to go in . . .” 

“Bah!” Stratini exploded. “You are about to go 
in as the sun is about to come up! I leave you alone 
for a moment and you remain out for hours. To bed— 
at once—do you hear!” 

Like a child discovered in mischief, Carol turned 
toward the house, yet her heart was heavy at having 
to leave them like this. Half way up the steps she 
paused, fearing that she would meet Whitney on her 
way to her room. She felt that she could not face him 
now . . . since she knew that he must have heard . . . 
and that he must be trying to figure the cause of 
Estelle’s maudlin taunt. 

“It’s partly my fault,” Bleeker sought to explain 
to Stratini. “Mrs. Delancey was ill and I asked Carol 




THIS WOMAN 


153 


“Mrs. Delancey was drunk!” Stratini corrected, 
“and I do not desire my songbird to trouble herself 
with such matters. . . .” 

“But I couldn’t leave her like that!” Carol turned 
to say. “It would have been inhuman!” 

“Will you go to bed!” he shouted at her. “If you 
wait another instant, I’ll put you there myself—and 
don’t suppose for one moment I’d hesitate to do it.” 

Bleeker grinned and Carol flushed as she fled to the 
house in confusion, fully aware that Stratini meant 
what he said literally. The living hall was deserted 
as she crossed to the stairs and paused a moment to 
listen before attempting ascent. It was silent above 
and she surmised that Estelle was at last in her room 
. . . then, as she gazed toward the landing, she heard 
someone descending. 

“Is it you, dear?” asked Whitney’s voice, and Carol 
wished she might hide, but Stratini and Bleeker cut 
off retreat. 

“Yes,” she answered softly, “but I’m terribly tired, 
if you please. . . . Don’t ask me to tell you anything 
now. . . .” And she drew away from him as he held 
out his arms to her. 

“Why, there’s nothing to tell, is there, dear?” he 
asked of her gently. “I thought it was all under¬ 
stood . . . that we both knew we loved each other!” 

“I’m sorry,” she said with a choke in her voice, 
“but you mustn’t think that . . . really! Some day, 
if you wish me to, I’ll do my best to explain. . . .” 

“You darling!” he cried and caught her passion¬ 
ately, kissing the words from her lips, and stroking 
her hair. “You can’t ever explain away what’s hap¬ 
pened between us to-night! I want you, sweet, and 
you know it . . . you know you want me too. . . .” 

“Damnation!” a thundering tone silenced his decla¬ 
ration, and Stratini banged his fist against the balus¬ 
trade. “Must I take you by the hair and drag you to 
your bed!” 




154 


THIS WOMAN 


“Really, Stratti!” said Whitney, angry beyond all 
patience, and not a little embarrassed, but Carol 
slipped from his arms and fled away up the stairs. 

“Now really what?” asked Stratini, not as greatly 
displeased as he tried to pretend. “Must I treat you 
all like a class of impossible children? But then you 
are in love . . . and that explains a multitude of sins! 
You have my sympathy .” 1 

“You make me tired!” snapped Whitney peevishly. 

“Then go to bed!” Stratini waved him away. “Good 
night! How the devil can people think of themselves 
when God’s staging His sunrise!” 

And turning on his heel, he walked to the veranda, 
inhaling the morning freshness as he gazed up at the 
sky. 




IV. 


Two mornings later Gramercy Bleeker, in golf togs 
and looking the worse for wear, strolled into the 
breakfast room at noon. He had not seen Estelle 
since bringing her back to the cottage, and had 
calmly accepted the story that she was indisposed. 
She was not, he knew, and her voluntary seclusion was 
not prompted by any sudden sense of shame. More 
likely she was violently angry with Freddy, out there 
putting a ball about the clock course on the lawn. . . . 
Didn’t interest Bleeker anyway, the Delanceys and 
their muddles. 

“Silly stuff . . . the whole business!” he muttered, 
lighting a cigarette with a hand which trembled nerv¬ 
ously, as he pondered the aftermath of the party on 
the beach. “Fool idea of Stratti’s, keeping Carol shut 
up. It was Whitney’s fault if anyone’s—that she had 
stayed up all night. . . . What of it? . . . Didn’t 
they all do it . . . and think nothing of it ?” He only 
hoped Carol was not concerned over the things Estelle 
had said in her ravings. 

Yet he could not help wondering just what was be¬ 
hind the attack of the boarding-house woman that 
afternoon on the steps of the Plaza. Not that it 
concerned him . . . Carol wasn’t the only girl who’d 
ever been in debt . . . and she’d insisted on his taking 
the sum he’d given the shrewish woman. But if he 
could possibly help it he did not mean to let Estelle’s 
nasty tongue annoy Carol about that affair. He did 
wish, though, that Carol would be a little more frank 
. . . that she’d speak to Mrs. R.-S. or Aline if she 
wouldn’t confide in him. Whitney had not even men¬ 
tioned Estelle’s brief tirade, yet the glumness about 
the house was beginning to bore Bleeker. If it wasn’t 
155 


156 


THIS WOMAN 


for something he had in mind, he’d leave if he de¬ 
cently could. 

Why couldn’t folks mind their own affairs? Heaven 
knew they’d enough to mind, without butting into the 
business of others. 

Listlessly he picked up the morning paper, skimmed 
it with scant interest; then swore to himself. Judson, 
aware of his symptoms, was mixing a bracer silently 
at the sideboard. 

“Pardon me, sir,” he said as he offered a silver tray. 
“But might I ask just what ‘incorporated’ means?” 

“A corporation?” Bleeker repeated, absently look¬ 
ing over the edge of his paper, “a corporation’s an 
association of individuals formed for the purpose of 
legally evading laws.” 

“Really, sir?” gasped the butler. “Can a man do 
that ?” 

“If he has the right lawyer he can,” Bleeker assured 
him gravely. “Thinking of becoming a corporation, 
Judson?” 

“I was wondering about Miss Carol, sir,” Judson 
explained, a curious light in the eyes that avoided 
Bleeker’s. “Surely she isn’t trying to evade any law?” 

A little annoyed, yet amused, Bleeker answered him 
as he downed the concoction he needed to soothe his 
nerves. “Certainly not,” he said. “Miss Drayton is 
seeking protection from the laws of convention. If 
you’re thinking of ‘Carol Incorporated’—its purpose 
is to make Miss Drayton immune from the grumblings 
of Mrs. Grundy.” 

“Mrs. Grundy?” Judson scratched his head. 
“I don’t think the lady has ever been enter¬ 
tained here. . . .” 

“Probably not!” chuckled Bleeker, “but she’s an in¬ 
timate friend of the Rector’s.” Then, with ebbing 
patience, he asked, “Why do you wish to know?” 

“Only idle curiosity, sir,” Judson apologized. 

“Well, don’t be so damned curious I” Bleeker snapped 




THIS WOMAN 


157 


irritably, “and don’t be idle either! I’m stepping out 
on the veranda . . . bring me a cocktail, will you?” 

Then as he lowered his lanky form into a porch¬ 
swing, he frowned and read more closely a front page 
item which caught his attention. “Speaking of angels !” 
he murmured, “Dear old Doctor Duane’s cutting loose 
again!” 

And as he read down the column, the clink of spurs 
announced the appearance of Whitney Duane. “Why 
here’s our little erring nephew!” Bleeker glanced up 
from the paper, a grin in his blood-shot eyes. 

“Why don’t you go to bed sober some night?” asked 
Whitney. “Afraid the shock would be fatal?” 

“Doesn’t intrigue me,” Bleeker shook his head as 
the butler disappeared. “I’ve tried it . . . try any¬ 
thing once.” 

“You’re drinking too much ... on the level!” 
Whitney opined. 

“Don’t rag me in the morning!” Bleeker protested 
as he steadied the unpleasant motion of the swing. 
“You’re a chip off the old block! Hang it, this damned 
swaying makes me dizzy!” 

“Swings are treacherous things,” smiled Whitney; 
“dangerous for debutantes in the moonlight and hard 
on hangovers in daylight.” 

“Say, lay off me, will you!” Bleeker drawled in dis¬ 
gust. “Isn’t one preacher in a family enough? Here 
. . . regale yourself with the horrified utterances of 
your sanctified uncle, and learn what a vicious life 
you’re leading. According to the Rector, ancient 
Babylon was an Epworth League compared to our 
modern society. The reverend gentleman has stripped 
us of every single shred of decency! He’s torn our 
cloaks of respectability from our backs and left us 
as shockingly nude in our iniquity as a flock of aban¬ 
doned Apollos and Aphrodites!” 

Impatiently, Whitney snatched the paper from him 
and sought the item which prompted this outburst. 




158 


THIS WOMAN 


“Poor old boy!” sighed Whitney, “of course he couldn’t 
wait to land to begin to pan us again . . . but you 
mustn’t be too hard on him ... he earnestly thinks 
he’s right.” Then, with a gathering frown, he began 
to digest the interview in detail. Obviously it an¬ 
noyed him beyond measure, yet his manner was still 
apologetic for and defensive of his kinsman. 

“I can’t believe that he’s referring to this house,” 
Whitney refused to admit. “He’s too fond of Mrs. 
R.-S. to criticize her parties. . . .” 

“Think so?” chuckled Bleeker. “You haven’t 
caught the half of it yet, my son. I assume that some 
fool reporter’s showed him an early copy of this week’s 
Social Chat . . . and the Rector has made the most of 
its nasty insinuations. Why, that story about Carol 
and Stratti is so thinly veiled that it hardly even pre¬ 
tends to conceal a single identity!” 

“What’s that?” asked Whitney, putting down the 
newspaper. “I haven’t even seen it.” 

“Moncure Vanderpool had a copy at the Casino last 
night,” Bleeker told him. “I think there’s one in that 
pile of mail—with the magazines.” 

Whitney turned quickly to the wicker table with its 
stack of unopened periodicals and sought the wrap¬ 
ping of the familiar scandal-monging sheet. 

“Waste of time to read it,” Bleeker shrugged, “yet 
it makes me wild-eyed . . . such nonsense! The usual 
blackmailing, senseless drivel . . . quite the sort of 
stuff we’re used to reading about ourselves. Nothing 
to get excited about . . . yet when I read the dis¬ 
gusting things I wonder why I don’t commit murder 
or mayhem on some little editor’s person. . . .” 

“Maybe it wouldn’t be nice to strike a lady,” Whit¬ 
ney said meaningly. “Whoever lets out such gossip 
must be on the inside . . . and of course every whis¬ 
per’s bound to be misinterpreted.” 

“Hum!” grunted Bleeker. “Hadn’t thought of that. 
Let me see it again.” 





THIS WOMAN 


159 


With a gesture of revulsion, Whitney gave him the 
weekly, and slowly Bleeker re-read it through. 

At a rather risqu6 beach-dance this week, the costume and con¬ 
duct of a young woman of imagined vocal attainments caused 
considerable comment among the more prudish—if, indeed, the 
mental attitude of any of the well-known guests may be said to 
even faintly border upon a state of prudishness. It is also 
rumored that this talented young beauty is hardly less at liberty 
than a fairy princess imprisoned in an ogre’s castle; yet, because 
of the unimpeachable position of her pseudo-hostess, no hint of 
scandal is breathed concerning a recent, intriguing “corporation” 
consummated by a group of £lite directors. But, my dears, if you 
could have seen and heard what went on in the shadow of over¬ 
hanging cliffs. . . . 

“Damn whoever wrote that!” Whitney suddenly 
stopped him, and Bleeker looked up from the article 
with inquiry in his eyes. 

“I’m sure I don’t get the last of it,” he said sincerely, 
“but I’ll bet that slap at Carol covers someone’s else 
sins!” 

“It does,” Whitney declared with emphasis. “And 
unknown to the informer, I know who’s responsible! 
But that isn’t what’s troubling me. Naturally, my 
uncle accepts it word for word . . . and, having heard 
a lot of gossip about Carol, he believes the damned 
lie!” 

“Naughty, naughty!” came a taunting reproof from 
the doorway, and Aline, in a chic riding habit, clicked 
her heels and saluted them with her crop. Then, catch¬ 
ing sight of the magazine, she burst out laughing. 
“Are you two quarreling, or have you been doing some¬ 
thing that’s been found out? Oh, Whitney, I’m sur¬ 
prised at you! What will your uncle say?” 

“It isn’t what he will say, but what he has said!” 
Whitney grudgingly answered. “Really, Aline, I wish 
you wouldn’t read the insulting rot!” 

“Is it about me ?’ 9 she asked eagerly. “I’d just love 
to be criticized!” 

“No,” said Whitney, “nor is it about Bleeker or me; 
but I suppose you’ll devour it anyway.” 




160 


THIS WOMAN 


Ignoring Social Chat , Aline caught up the morning 
paper, attracted by the headline the men had been 
discussing. 

RETURNING RECTOR ATTACKS SOCIETY’S 
SPONSORING SINGER 

“Landing yesterday from the Cunarder Colio sit ania, 
the Rev. Gouverneur Duane, Rector of St. Timothy’s 
Church, flailed society’s latest fad in incorporating 
Miss Carol Drayton and furnishing funds for her mu¬ 
sical training under the tuition of Baptiste Stratini, 
Director of the Opera. . . 

She skipped through the rehashed details of the 
story the papers had made so much of a few months 
before, and found the paragraph that had prompted 
Whitney’s fury. 

“I am grieved and shocked,” said Doctor Duane, 
“that men and women to whom my parishioners look to 
set an uplifting example, should countenance the con¬ 
duct hinted at in a current periodical of which I thor¬ 
oughly disapprove. Apt as this publication is to 
exaggerate, the carryings-on it chronicles at a recent 
beach-party, so called, are a stench in the nostrils of 
upright people. The revealing of the feminine form 
without thought of common decency is bad enough in 
itself, yet, coupled with this, I learn of the open accept¬ 
ance of a shameless creature who is actually being 
trained for the public stage at the instance of those 
who form the very pillars of our social and spiritual 
structure. Sexitis looms in every line of the account 
which has been shown me ... a tale of drunkenness 
and debauchery and worse, which is not only outra¬ 
geous and reprehensible in itself but unfit for publica¬ 
tion in the public press. I cannot condemn too strongly 




THIS WOMAN 


161 


the growing affiliation between the naked harlotry of 
the footlights and the homes of young girls already 
deplorably exposed to the licentious liberty afforded 
the forlorn young creatures so flippantly referred to 
as flappers. . . .” 

“Why, the old monster!” Aline cried as her cheeks 
flushed with anger. “It’s an outrage . . . and just as 
you said, Whit— a damned lie! Mummy will be furi¬ 
ous. Everybody knows that Carol’s a dear, and it’s 
perfectly splendid, all that Stratti’s done for her. I 
could box your old uncle’s donkey ears!” And her 
little boot heel stamped upon the porch with tem¬ 
pestuous violence. 

“I could myself at times,” Whitney confessed. “But 
the devil of it is he’s in deadly earnest.” 

“He’s deadly all right!” broke in Bleeker with an 
amused grin. 

“I’m going to show it to Mummy right away!” Aline 
announced as she folded the paper. 

“Please . . . not yet!” Whitney objected, trying to 
take it from her. 

“What harm?” asked Bleeker with a shrug, “the 
whole cottage colony knows it ... or will in an hour 
or so. By all means let Mrs. R.-S. see it. . . . By the 
way, have you ever observed her in action, Whit ? For 
a delicate, beautiful woman of poise, I’ll say she’s some 
tornado!” 

“That’s just it,” objected Whitney. “It’s bound to 
lead to a scene, and I’m sure I don’t relish being the 
storm center of argument.” 

“Suit yourself!” Bleeker withdrew from the dis¬ 
cussion. 

“I might as well pack my bags and go,” Whitney 
said to Aline. “When your mother sees these. . . .” 

“Nonsense!” Aline disagreed. “Mother knows you’d 
nothing to do with them.” 

“Whit,” Bleeker observed solemnly, “since you’ve 




162 


THIS WOMAN 


called me an ass so many times—and with perfect jus¬ 
tification—I must say yovJre one now! Sorry I can’t 
stay and chat with you two, but I’ve a date to trim 
Harry Ru4yon at golf.” 

“You couldn’t trim anyone—now that there isn’t 
any nineteenth hole!” Aline teased as Bleeker arose and 
sauntered toward the veranda rail. 

“Show you, old dear!” Bleeker retorted, “but I’m 
glad you reminded me! I’ll step inside and have a word 
with our good friend Judson first. Blessed are they 
who thirst, as the Rector would say! Toodle-oo, my 
children!” 

“Stratti’ll be a rip-snorting fire-dragon!”' Aline fore¬ 
casted as Bleeker stepped into the house and left her 
alone with Whitney, “but the worst of it is that Carol 
will be so upset. I’d like to tear these up and burn 
them!” 

“It wouldn’t do any good,” he said ruefully. “The 
harm’s done now.” 

“Don’t take it so to heart!” Aline advised. “You’re 
not in the least to blame and we all know there isn’t 
really any scandal.” 

“Which doesn’t make my position any more pleas¬ 
ant,” Whitney reminded her. “It’s been hard enough 
with Carol anyway, and it’s going to be harder still to 
face her now ...” 

“Whit,” said Aline slowly, “you’re lots older than I 
am, and in some ways, I suppose, you think you’re very 
wise . . . but there are no wise men we debbies can’t 
see clean through. I know you like a book. You know 
I do! Haven’t we been such splendid pals that every¬ 
one in our set thinks we’re going to be married?” 

“Why yes,” he admitted in sudden embarrassment. 
“Of course . . . even I’ve always sort of taken that 
for granted.” 

“Don’t be so utterly silly!” she laughed at him. 
“We don’t have to deceive ourselves, do we? You know 
I don’t want to marry you, and you’re only afraid that 




THIS WOMAN 


163 


you ought to marry me! Now let your luggage stay 
where it is and come for a canter with me. . . .” 

“I think I’d best go over and see the Rector. I 
believe he’s at the hotel at Narragansett. . . 

Aline gave him a grimace. “Do you mean that five 
seconds after I’ve decided not to be your wife, you’re 
going to try to bamboozle him into letting you marry 
Carol?” 

“Why, Aline!” he stammered, his flush growing 
deeper beneath his tan. 

“Of course that never entered your head!” she 
taunted sarcastically. “Being a girl of engageable 
age, I’d naturally not be suspicious when my life-long 
lover falls in love with another girl!” 

“Now you’re being silly!” he accused her defensively. 
“You know I can’t ask Carol—even if I wished to— 
after this rotten mess!” 

“A preaching uncle is a handicap, isn’t he?” Aline 
said saucily. “Come on, let’s get the horses. ... I 
want to talk to you.” Then as she slipped her arm 
through his and looked up into his face, she asked him 
very gently, “Are you really quite mad about her?” 

“Yes,” he answered simply . . . earnestly. 

“Then that’s settled!” Aline announced with deci¬ 
sion. “Whit, I’m going to do all I can to help you 
win her!” 

“You perfect peach of a pal!” he cried in enthusi¬ 
asm, and caught her in his arms. “Just for being a 
game little sport . . . I’m going to kiss you!” 

She flung both arms about his neck and he lifted her 
a little, caressing Aline with affection born of a deep 
regard and a true delight in the girl. 

Just as he did so, Bleeker stepped out on the porch. 
“Well, I’ll be damned!” he exclaimed as the two walked 
away, their heads close together as they laid their 
pleasant plans. Then, with a start, Bleeker saw Carol 
standing by the French window of the music room, and 
his expression changed. 




164 


THIS WOMAN 


“I beg your pardon!” he asked of Carol, but the plea 
seemed idiotic . . . inadequate. Yet aware as he was 
of what she had seen, there was nothing else he could 
say. Comment would have been odious . . . uncalled 
for. 

“Oh, it isn’t at all necessary,” Carol answered, 
quickly trying to conceal her discomposure, yet suc¬ 
ceeding little better than Bleeker did in hiding his 
amazement. 

Then, before he could put himself at his ease, a step 
sounded at the far end of the veranda and Bleeker saw 
Stratini, immaculate in his flannels, staring with amuse¬ 
ment after Aline and Whitney. Instantly the impre¬ 
sario grew conscious of the crushed look in Carol’s 
eyes, and a curious light of satisfaction dawned in his 
own. But he pretended to vent his wrath upon Bleeker. 

“Gramercy!” he protested with mock severity, “have 
you been ruffling my songbird’s feathers?” 

“I’m afraid I swore before .her!” Bleeker assumed 
an air of mocking meekness. 

“Shocking!” reproved Stratini, and Carol forced a 
smile. 

“You should hear Signor Stratini give me a music 
lesson!” 

“Really?” grinned Bleeker. “Well, I must be tod¬ 
dling. . . .” But as he spoke he recalled that the path 
he meant to take was the one along which Aline and 
Whitney had disappeared. “Hang it!” he made an 
excuse to delay. “I’ve forgotten something. . . . Oh, 
now I remember what it is. . . . I need another 
drink.” 




V. 


“Aren’t you well ?” demanded Stratini, knocking the 
ash from his long Russian cigarette. They were his 
pets, and increasing difficulty in obtaining them made 
him all the more bitter a foe of Bolshevism. Little 
things like that annoyed him immeasurably. “Then 
what is the matter?” 1 he insisted when she proved 
reticent. 

“Yes, I am well,” she answered at last. “Nothing is 
the matter ... in fact, nothing matters . . . now!” 

“Bah!” he affected disgust and ignorance of her 
trouble. “You sleep too late . . . you stay up too 
late ... you eat too much . . . and work too little! 
You expect to be a star, yet you will not be a slave. 
You demand worship too soon! You wish to be a but¬ 
terfly even before you have wings. Wait! Later on, 
when I have coated them with the asbestos of experi¬ 
ence, you may flit through the flame of passion without 
scorching their delicate texture.” 

But she did not appear to heed him, and listlessW 
seated herself in a wicker chair. Stratini, too, was gaz¬ 
ing out over the lawn, wondering how best to handle 
this new situation, created, he thought, by Carol’s 
resentment at Whitney’s desertion. It even surprised 
the maestro a trifle. . . . Perhaps it was not serious. 
Few love affairs were, he recalled. 

Then, picking up the opened copy of Social Chat he 
skimmed through the breezy item with frank distaste, 
yet the notice seemed to amuse him. But a moment 
later, as he put it down, the heading of Doctor Duane’s 
interview arrested his eye, and a cloud of thunderlike 
fury crossed his features as he slowly perused it. Nat¬ 
urally, he assumed that Carol had seen it, and now he 
165 


166 


THIS WOMAN 


realized, or thought he knew, the cause of her upset 
condition. It had not been Whitney after all, but his 
canting elderly uncle! 

“So!” Stratini exclaimed, out of temper, “you are 
upset about this fool Duane!” 

Resenting his tone, and supposing he spoke of Whit¬ 
ney, Carol glared at him angrily, deeply hurt at his 
attitude in spite of her utter misery. 

“Sheer absurdity!” he went on irately. “How Mrs. 
R.-S. and Aline can tolerate the contemptible cad is 
beyond me! He’s unworthy of your notice ... I for¬ 
bid you to give him another thought. ... I, Stratini! 
If he causes you more unhappiness, I’ll throttle him 
with my own hands . . . and relish the doing of it. 
I’ve not Medici blood in my veins for nothing!” 

“Don’t!” cried Carol indignantly . . . helplessly, 
resenting his characterization of Whitney, and totally 
unaware that Stratini condemned the Rector. “I can’t 
and I won't listen to you talk like that! And I can’t 
blame him. . . . Oh, I thought . . . but what differ¬ 
ence can it make what I thought! I should never have 
entered into this absurd arrangement . . . and . . . 
I can’t go on! My heart isn’t in the work.” 

“It isn’t that your heart isn’t in the work,” he 
sneered. “It is rather that something else is in your 
heart. Love affairs are not good for art. Emotions 
are worse. Be callous. What do you care what people 
say or think? Suppose this man has said ridiculous, 
uncalled for things ...” 

“I can’t believe that he could have said anything 
unkind!” she protested loyally, not even suspecting the 
stories Stratini had read and thinking only of the man 
she loved . . . the man whom she now knew she loved 
more than ever. 

“That depends upon what you term unkind!” 
shrugged Stratini, glancing toward the newspaper and 
wondering how she could speak so absurdly. 

“I’d rather not discuss the subject.” She tried to 




THIS WOMAN 


167 


change the topic. “You’ve all been wonderfully kind 
. . . and it’s been a delight to work with you. At 
first, I was supremely happy, confident of my ability to 
succeed . . . then my hopes faded like a mist in the 
morning. I might have known my paradise couldn’t 
last . . . that sooner or later he would find out, or 
. . . suspect. . . .” 

“You mean that this man Duane knows something 
about you ... a serious something that you’ve never 
mentioned to me?” he charged her angrily. 

“I’m afraid so,” she hung her head, not daring to 
meet his disapproving scrutiny. 

“I’m sorry,” he said very softly . . . almost feel¬ 
ingly . . . yet with a fatherly air, resentful of her 
deception. It hurt, and she could not face him. 

Then her whole being changed, and a spirit of defi¬ 
ance swept her into a flare of self-assertion, “7’ra not 
sorry! I’m glad!” she cried as she cast all caution 
from her. “Time and time again I’ve known that I 
couldn’t continue—living a lie to you all! Oh, I’ve 
hated myself for not telling you the truth . . . the 
whole contemptible business! I’d have given anything 
if I had drowned myself in the river that night . . . 
before I lost my courage to take my life . . . and 
wandered back to sing outside that window! It would 
have saved a lot of heartbreaks . . . and heartbreaks 
are harder to bear than hunger ... or death!” 

She shuddered and twisted her handkerchief with 
nervous fingers, too deeply moved to cry . . . almost 
beyond all caring. 

“Why not go to your room?” he suggested kindly, 
sympathy getting the better of his iron will to disci¬ 
pline her further. After all, he thought, he might drive 
the girl too far. “Lie down and rest a little ... let 
me ask Mrs. R.-S. to come to you. She will understand 
my dear ... a woman like that would.” 

“I don’t want her advice . . . nor your sympathy 
either!” she raged at him. “I’m through with it all, 




168 


THIS WOMAN 


do you hear me? I’m through . . . through . . . 
through!” And her voice ended in almost a shriek as 
she quickly arose, facing Stratini with fury as her 
heart overflowed. “Besides,” she added with a sob she 
could not control, “Aline loves him . . . and his uncle 
would not consent to our marriage anyway!” 

“Sapristi!” he cried in impatience, berating his all 
too obvious stupidity. “Here I have been speaking of 
the uncle, and all the while you imagine I mean young 
Whitney! Oh, I am a great numskull! My child, I 
beg your pardon; but when you have read these 
articles, I think you will understand.” 

Then, indicating the paper and the open magazine, 
he turned on his heel and went into the house, leaving 
her to stare after him in uncomprehending amazement. 

Convulsively her fingers clutched at the chair, and 
for a time she merely gazed across the lawn, trying her 
best to control herself and succeeding rather poorly. 
But gradually a curiosity to know what Stratini 
meant caused her slowly to examine the paper. Catch¬ 
ing sight of the article, she read it through without 
pausing, her eyes bulging as its full sense dawned upon 
her. Desperate, cut to the quick by the article’s infer¬ 
ence, and realizing that the charges were made by 
Whitney’s relative, she tore the offending sheet across, 
and throwing it to the porch, stamped on it in her tan^ 
trum. Then, turning to Social Chat , she read the 
other insult . . . more than she could bear . . . and 
with a low moan she sank down in a heap in the chair. 

Stunned as she sat there, dazed by the blow of this 
crowning unkindness, Carol was unaware of Judson 
peering at her from the French window. Obviously, he 
had been listening, and from the half-erased expression 
of boldness on his usually placid countenance, it was 
evident that he knew what had so upset Carol. 

“Shall I serve breakfast here?” he asked, watching 
her narrowly, as a cat may stalk a bird; and approach- 





THIS WOMAN 


169 


ing her chair, he began to arrange the napery of the 
little table set at her elbow. 

“No!” said Carol sharply, resenting the man’s intru- 
sion, yet giving no heed to the servant’s movements. 
Her lack of interest afforded the chance he sought, and 
with a deft, guarded movement, his hand slipped into 
the workbag which dangled by its ribbon from Carol’s 
arm. In an instant he was at attention, the alert and 
perfect butler again. Yet there was craftiness in his 
pretended respect, and calculation in his carefully put 
question. 

“Beg pardon, ma’am, but I wondered whether a man 
like me could get incorporated?” 

Despite her dejection, Carol realized the oddness of 
his remark . . . seemed to sense its portent. “Why?” 
she looked up, noncommittally. 

“Mr. Bleeker says that anyone who’s incorporated 
can break laws,” he replied with apparent incredulity. 

“I’m sure I don’t know, Judson,” Carol dismissed 
his presumption, “and I’m not at all interested. . . .” 

“But,” the butler persisted, “Mr. Bleeker said that 
your being incorporated keeps you from getting in bad 
with this dame, Mrs. Grundy.” 

Carol’s eyes flashed at his calm impudence, yet some¬ 
thing warned her to guard her reproof. “I’m afraid I 
don’t quite understand. . . .” But her manner plainly 
showed her apprehension. 

“Then suppose I speak plainly, Miss,” Judson sug¬ 
gested self-confidently. “The night you fainted in the 
court-yard, I helped Mr. Bleeker to his car when he 
went away. In getting out his gloves, I found a lady’s 
handbag in the pocket of his coat . . . and this 
dropped out of it. . . .” 

Staring as though she had seen a ghost, Carol recog¬ 
nized the printed slip the man held out toward her. 
Now she knew what had happened to that abominably 
precious sheet the whereabouts of which had caused her 
such concern. She wanted to deny its ownership, yet 




170 


THIS WOMAN 


she wished to snatch it from him ... to tear it to bits 
and destroy the thing forever. But that would not 
serve since Judson was aware of what was written on 
it. Observing her all too evident perturbation, Judson 
indulged in a smug smile and continued blandly. 

“Don’t be alarmed, Miss,” he said with insufferable 
insinuation, “I didn’t mean to keep this and no one 
knows I have it. You see it’s not made out in the name 
of Miss Drayton, and only lately I thought to myself 
that it might belong to you.” 

Then, as though restoring a dropped trinket of 
insignificant worth, the butler handed Carol her certifi¬ 
cate of release from the Reformatory. 

Holding it with trembling fingers, Carol shuddered 
as she stared at the slip of paper . . . reading again 
the fictitious name she had given at the time of her 
arrest. Of course Judson knew it was hers. He had 
overheard what was said one afternoon at tea, and 
other gossip at least had undoubtedly reached his ears. 
Now there was no doubt in his mind and he knew that 
she dared not deny her identity . . . that she must 
admit to him her criminal record. How much better it 
would have been if she had been frank with them all! 
But now it was too late, and with a sigh she crumpled 
the sheet in her palm. 

With an effort she pulled herself together and met 
his unpardonable scrutiny with a steady stare. “I 
don’t know what you want,” she said to him quietly, 
“but if blackmail’s in your mind—you’re wasting time.” 
Her tone was cold, distant, but determined. 

“No offense meant, ma’am,” he hastened to deny. 
Then in low suggestive voice, he went on as he leaned a 
little nearer over the breakfast table, pretending to 
take hex* order. “I was just thinking I might be able 
to help . . . that maybe I ought to tell you I know 
about this . . . ah, matter. . . .” 

“Since you do,” she said defiantly, “make the most 
of it! If you’re impudent again, I shall see that you’re 




THIS WOMAN 


171 


discharged.” And with a hasty movement, she slipped 
the little paper into her open workbag. That seemed 
to amuse him, but he did not presume to answer her, 
and only silently bowed. 

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he apologized as he walked 
toward the house with dignity. “I hope you’ll forgive 
me for speaking about . . . your property.” 

Alone on the veranda, the last vestige of Carol’s 
composure deserted her, and for several moments she 
sat there in silence, trying her best to think. Why he 
had given the paper to her, she could not quite under¬ 
stand, yet the fact that he knew what it was sufficed 
for his purpose. And she knew he would not hesitate 
to take advantage of his knowledge . . . but if he did, 
if blackmail was his motive, she would not even attempt 
to force him to hold his tongue ... no matter what 
might result. 

Slowly her fingers sought the certificate amid the 
jumble of fabrics and silk skeins which filled her bag, 
and suddenly a gleam of horrified surprise came into 
her eyes as she touched something hard amid the soft¬ 
ness. Half-hesitating, looking about to make sure that 
no one was near, she drew out a string of emeralds and 
crushed them into her lap. -That one faint glimpse of 
the stones was sufficient. The necklace was Estelle’s. 
That she could have put it there was of course incred¬ 
ible. So it was only possible that the butler had placed 
them. Carol tried to call out, to summon him back 
... to accuse him . . . and then she laughed aloud* 
In view of what he knew, of what he could readily 
prove, what chance had she to accuse the man? He 
would brand her as a thief before she could tell her 
story, and no matter what his record might be, the 
truth about hers would be plain. 

Then, in a panic of fear, she quickly hid the jewels, 
tightly drawing the string of her workbag. A hail 
from the lawn and the patter of boots on the steps . . . 




172 


THIS WOMAN 


and a moment later Aline was running across the 
veranda. 

“So you’re up at last!” she called out gayly. “I 
heard you singing out like a lark as you splashed in 
the tub. Does Stratti insist on those awful cold 
baths?” she added with a shiver. 

“They’re to wash my sins away ... to chill my 
soul, I guess!” Carol answered with absent bitterness. 

Aline laughed and then caught sight of the workbag. 
“Knitting? Let’s see the pretties. . . .” 

Startled, almost desperate, Carol clutched it to her. 
“Not yet . . . it’s a secret!” she evaded, but her eyes 
dropped and she knew that her cheeks were burning. 

“Oh, that’s it!” laughed Aline. “Now I under¬ 
stand . . . you’re making the Rector a pair of comfy 
bedroom slippers ... a little token of appreciation 
of the publicity he’s given you, eh?” 

“You saw it?” asked Carol nervously, yet relieved 
that Aline was not insistent. 

“Of course,” Aline replied, affecting to make light 
of the matter. “Isn’t it exciting? Maybe Stratti’ll 
challenge him to a duel!” Then she sighed in mock 
misery. “I do wish someone’d publish some scandal 
about 7 ne. It must be just glorious to be talked about 
. . . and all I get are talkings to . . . from Mummy!” 

Carol smiled . . . wanly, but she could not bring 
herself to speak. 

But Aline flung herself into the swing and began to 
beat a tattoo on the toes of her polished boots. “Now, 
honor bright, Carol Drayton,” she shook her crop at 
the other girl, “if I tell you a secret will you agree 
never to breathe a word? It’s about Whitney,” she 
went on excitedly, “and I’m the happiest girl in the 
world!” 

“I promise,” Carol said, suppressing a sigh as she 
avoided the gaze of Aline’s sparkling eyes. 

“Well,” Aline announced with an air of relief, 
“we’re not going to be married!” 




THIS WOMAN 


173 


“You’re not? ...” Carol exclaimed in doubting 
amazement . . . “why, I thought. . . .” 

“Of course you thought so,” Aline agreed. “Every¬ 
one did . . . and I was just a little bit afraid he’d 
insist myself.” 

“Afraid so?” Carol gasped, wonderingly. 

“Yes, afraid!” Aline confirmed impishly. “Whit¬ 
ney’s wonderful . . . but we’ve known each other ever 
since I can remember. We couldn’t possibly be happy 
married ... to each other. I even know how he likes 
his eggs and how much sugar he takes . . . and he 
thinks I drink entirely too many cocktails. Ugh! So 
we talked it all over this morning and sealed the 
breaking of our reputed engagement with a kiss.” 

“This morning?” It began to dawn upon Carol . . . 
and she seemed to understand the embrace she had seen. 
“To tell you the truth, my dear, I saw Whitney 
kiss you . . . and naturally I imagined something 
else. . . .” 

“What’s a kiss between friends?” shrugged Aline. 
“Even the Rector says one should turn the other cheek. 
But, Carol, I’m as delighted as a newly made divorcee! 
Whit and I are going to be perfectly good friends . . . 
and now that we know we’re not in love we can have 
such splendid times!” 

“Aline!” Carol reproved. “Surely you can’t mean 
that! Why, dear, it’s nothing more than a lovers’ 
quarrel. . . .” 

“Don’t be such a gloom-caster!” Aline pouted. “The 
decree’s final, and you needn’t go about looking like a 
funeral any more. Register happiness, can’t you?” 

“It’s not in my repertoire,” Carol shook her head. 

“Nonsense!” snapped Aline impatiently, and sat her¬ 
self on the arm of Carol’s chair. “You’re older than I 
am, dear . . . you don’t mind my saying that? . . . 
and Whit is too . . . and you’re both supposed to be 
ever so wise and experienced . . . but I can’t under¬ 
stand you sometimes! Why, Whit must be growing 




174 


THIS WOMAN 


senile or something . . . otherwise he’d have taken 
you by storm long ago . . . cave-man stuff if 
necessary. . . 

Carol smiled and put her hand on Aline’s with a little 
shake of her head. “I can hardly imagine Whitney as 
a cave-man,” she said, “his clubs are very exclusive 
but by no means menacing. And if he did resort to 
prehistoric methods, he wouldn’t be likely to drag me 
off to his lair. . . .” 

“Because of his ogre uncle?” Aline suggested. 

“Perhaps,” assented Carol, “but in any event, I’d 
run away, the very first chance that came. . . 

“You wouldn’t! Carol Drayton, you know you’re 
in love with Whit!” 

“Sometimes,” Carol said softly, “a woman loves a 
man too much to marry him.” 

“Not in our set,” Aline contradicted. “A girl’s 
more likely to do it to punish him.” 

“You’re incorrigible!” 

“No . . . merely eligible . . . and indifferent!” 
Aline explained. “Even if the next season will be my 
third. Just as Stratti says, I’m a wise foolish virgin. 
That’s why I know that I don’t love Whit, and why I 
know you do. Honestly, why won’t you marry him?” 

“Aline, I can’t explain . . . but it’s quite impos¬ 
sible. . . .” 

“Nonsense! Whitney isn’t a saint, even if the Rector 
is his uncle!” 

“But even hardened sinners demand spotless wives,” 
Carol reminded her. . . .” 

“Oh, you needn’t pretend you’re so fascinatingly 
fast. I know you too well!” 

“But why discuss it ?” Carol said. “He’s never likely 
to ask me. . . .” 

“Oh, yes, he is!” declared Aline. “In fact I made'' 
him promise. . . .” 

“Aline!” Carol shrank back. “I know you only wish 




THIS WOMAN 


175 


to make me happy, but won’t you please believe me 
when I say it’s out of the question ?” 

“Not unless you tell me why,” Aline insisted. 
“Carol, you know I’m as fond of you as I could be of 
my own sister . . . and we’re all proud of your prog¬ 
ress . . . and the things you’re going to do. You 
don’t suppose we care what the Rector says, do you? 
Naturally not. But it isn’t fair to stifle your heart 
and not tell me what’s the matter.” 

“I’ve often wanted to, Aline,” Carol said with emo¬ 
tion. “But it would be the hardest of all to explain to 
you. Now, it wouldn’t do any good. I ought never to 
have come into your mother’s house without making a 
clean breast of it all . . . and now I suppose you’ll 
think me ungrateful and unprincipled . . . but I must 
go away, dear.” 

“Good night!" exclaimed Aline. “First Whitney 
and then you! Are you both crazy ?” 

Carol shook her head. “It’s because I can’t uphold 
my end of the bargain,” she went on. “I’m afraid I 
haven’t the stamina to become even a mediocre artiste . 
To keep on trying is only to waste Signor Stratini’s 
time . . . and my incorporators’ money . . . and to 
eat out my own heart by remaining here.” 

Aline bent very close and put her arms about her. 
“Won't you let me share your secret?” she begged 
persuasively. 

“I’m afraid you wouldn’t understand,” Carol said. 
“And I’d rather have you think of me as you do. 
You’ve never suffered, Aline . . . and I hope you never 
will ... as I have! You’ve never known what it 
means to be hungry ... to have something in your 
life that you want to conceal ... a secret you’re 
deathly afraid will come out!” 

“I think I could understand ... if you wished to 
tell me,” Aline sympathized, “but I don’t mean to be 
prying. I only want you to know that we all want 




176 


THIS WOMAN 


you here . . . that we love you because you’re you 
. . . that we feel you belong to us!” 

“I’ve thought of that too,” Carol said, “not in the 
way you put it, Aline, but that I almost literally belong 
to you all! I’ve accepted your conditions and your 
money, your food and your clothes. . . 

“Carol, don't ! 19 Aline protested, hurt rather than 
angry. “We’ve so much and we’ve given so little that 
such things don’t even count.” 

“But they do . . . they must,” Carol insisted. 
“You’ve made an investment in me . . . blindly, it’s 
true . . . but nevertheless I’m nothing more than a 
piece of property ... a corporation in which you 
hold the legal control. The disheartening part is the 
knowledge that I’m a disappointment ... to myself 
and to you! No, dear, the songbird’s about to sing 
her swan song . . . before the overture ! 19 

“You’re not yourself this morning,” Aline tried to 
comfort her. “And you mustn’t get yourself into such 
a frame of mind. Songbird stock’s going to go up . . . 
and you’re going up to the altar . . . with Whitney 
Duane!” 

“Forgive me for being a baby!” Carol smiled 
through her tears. “But even if I go on, you must for¬ 
get about Whitney. The articles of incorporation for¬ 
bid my marriage within three years. . . 

“You forget that Whit’s a lawyer!” Aline teased. 
“He drew the document. No doubt he knows how to 
undo it. But if he can’t, I’ll buy the controlling inter¬ 
est myself. Then I’ll vote you into matrimony!” 

“You’re a dear!” Carol said eagerly, but the sudden 
appearance of Judson interrupted the two. 

“Pardon, Miss Aline,” the butler said stiffly, “but 
your mother would like to see you.” 

“I’ll be there shortly,” Aline tossed over her shoulder. 

“I’m sorry, Miss,” added Judson, “but Madam has 
just ’phoned the Rector, asking him to come over . . . 
and she’d like to see you before he arrives.” 




THIS WOMAN 


177 


“Say I’ll be there at once!” Aline answered humor¬ 
ously, winking slyly at Carol. “Something tells me 
there’ll be fireworks before evening!” 

“I hope not!” Carol said quickly, catching her breath 
as she thought of the coming interview; but a sidelong 
glance at Judson advised her that silence was best. 
“But,” she said quietly to Aline, “if I were not quite 
so weary, I’d like to meet the Rector . . . more than 
ever now!” 

“Why try to achieve his acquaintance?” Aline asked 
flippantly. “Most of us are born to it or have it thrust 
upon us. If you’re going to your room, I’ll be up when 
I’ve talked with Mummy.” 

Carol nodded, but as Aline went into the house, Jud¬ 
son turned to her. “Signor Stratini is asking for you 
in the music room,” he told her. 

Contempt for the servant and reluctance to face her 
maestro swept over Carol. “Tell Signor Stratini I can¬ 
not come ...” she told the servant, but he slowly 
shook his head. 

His eyes left hers and fixed themselves meaningly 
upon Carol’s workbag. 

“Don’t you think you’d be safer in there . . . war¬ 
bling a bit with him?” he advised, and intently watched 
her reaction. 

Carol’s form stiffened and her fingers clenched. 
“Then you did slip those jewels into my bag!” she 
accused. “Judson, you stole that necklace, and your 
absurd imagination makes you believe I’ll help 
you. . . .” 

“Ain’t we birds of a feather?” he asked her menac¬ 
ingly, looking over his shoulder suspiciously. “I’m 
only asking you to hold the pretties a while. . . .” 

46 You thief!” she shot him a look of scorn, but he 
brazenly laughed in her face. 

“Now don’t be so high and mighty!” he warned. 
“We’ve both done time and we’re going to work 
together. You squeal on me and ...” 




178 


THIS WOMAN 


But a step behind him silenced the man and he stif¬ 
fened quickly as Bleeker staggered onto the porch, his 
step uncertain and his eyes slightly glazed. “Judson, 
you old devil!” he said thickly, “I’ve been lookin’ every¬ 
where for you. I wish you’d mix ...” 

“You look all mixed up now,” Carol accused him as 
she observed his condition; yet the forced lightness of 
her remark afforded her infinite relief . . . any inter¬ 
ruption was preferable to being alone with the butler. 

“Right away, sir,” Judson bowed, keeping his eyes 
upon Carol and signaling her to be silent. “I was 
just straightening up before the Rector arrives.” 

“Dominie coming?” grinned Bleeker stupidly. 
“Then maybe I’d better straighten up myself. Cock¬ 
tail’ll do it, Judson, or maybe a brandy and soda . . . 
there’s a good man.” Then as the butler departed, 
Bleeker turned to Carol, swaying a little unsteadily, 
and looking rather sheepish. “Had a date to play golf 
with Runyon, but every time I’ve started, I found I’d 
forgotten something. . . 

“If you remember much more you won’t be able to 
carry it all,” Carol warned him, eager to get to her 
room before the butler returned, yet loath to leave 
Bleeker alone in his present condition. It was almost 
revolting, pitiful, she thought, and her heart went out 
to him. But in the same instant a sudden fear seized 
her. Suppose his irresponsible tongue should take up 
her case. Loyal as he was, and splendid as he had 
been, he might only make matters worse if he should 
try to defend her, and no doubt the butler could pump 
him without any effort. 

If Bleeker had been himself she felt that she would 
have told him about the necklace, thrown herself on his 
mercy and begged him to come to her aid. But now 
that was impossible, and she wished to be by herself, to 
figure out calmly and quickly what was best to be done. 
Of course the jewels must be restored to Estelle, but 




THIS WOMAN 


179 


the problem was how to do it without involving herself; 
how to checkmate Judson and not become implicated. 

Bleeker steadied himself by the veranda rail. “Some¬ 
thin’s always interferin’ when I want to pay my re- 
specsch t’ th’ minishter ...” he bemoaned, half 
humorously. Then he waved his hand foolishly toward 
the window of the music room, and, turning, Carol saw 
Stratini looking out at them. 

“Are we ready?” the maestro asked, with a frown in 
Bleeker’s direction. 

“Stratti!” Carol appealed with a weary gesture, 
“please don’t ask me now! You must know I’m upset. 
. . . Don’t ask me to sing, but sit with me. ... I 
want to talk witbj you.” 

“What absurdity!” he exclaimed, as he came toward 
her. “Is it not understood that our program must 
stand? A thousand devils! I give you a little liberty 
and you promptly grow lazy . . . you want to be 
pampered and petted. Bah!” 

“But, Stratti !” she halted him earnestly. “There’s 
something I must say. . . .” 

“It will keep!” he shrugged. “I have said we will 
have a lesson . . . therefore we will have a lesson. I 
will not be put off. If you will not practice, how can 
you hope to be more than a ragged street singer!” 

Furious at his deliberate taunt, Carol stamped her 
foot. “Go on . . . revile me! Humiliate me . . . 
remind me of what I was! It is time you learned that 
I too have a will!” 

He laughed at her, mockingly. “Say rather a 
diabolical willfulness ! You are suffering from senseless 
sentimentality. Have I not forbidden you even to 
dream of the future . . . told you to live in the pres¬ 
ent . . . and work? Come, now . . . ignore this 
absurd slander . . . put love and marriage out of 
your mind. . . .” 

“Love and marriage!” Carol repeated with bitter¬ 
ness. “Is everyone mad on the subject? First I am 




180 


THIS WOMAN 


urged to marry . . . told that I will be forced . . . 
then you forbid me even to think of it!” 

Angrily, Stratini glared at Bleeker. “Are you 
filling her head with such notions?” 

“Not I!” he denied with fuddled fervor. “Now what 
the devil’s detaining that butler?” 

But Stratini ignored him as he wheeled upon Carol. 
“Then it is Whitney!” he charged her, out of patience. 
“I tell you to forget the man!” 

“But, Stratti, won’t you listen . . . won’t you let 
me . . . ?” 

“No! ... I say we will sing!” he thundered. “We 
waste time . . . and I am waiting!” 

Rudely he caught her by the arm and tried to push 
her toward the music room window. 

“I say!” protested Bleeker, “don’t be too rough with 
her, Stratti!” 

“Go to the devil!” the impresario snapped, and his 
face clouded with rage as Carol eluded his hold. 

“I won’t sing!” she screamed at him, her eyes flash¬ 
ing wildly, and her body trembling with anger. “I tell 
you I won’t. You can’t make me sing!” 

“Bah!” exclaimed the maestro, seizing her in both 
arms. “Since you behave like an infant, I shall have 
to chastise you!” 

“Now really!” Bleeker began as Carol’s shrieks rang 
out and Stratini carried her kicking and squirming 
into the house, “You’re going a bit too far. . . .” 

But Stratini only glared through the glass at him 
as he put Carol down, and slammed the French windows 
in Bleeker’s face with a bang. 

“Well, what d’you think of that?” Bleeker stared 
in amazement; then finding a wicker fan-chair, com¬ 
posed himself for a nap. 




VI. 


Mopping his brow as he stepped from a taxicab, the 
Reverend Gouverneur Duane flecked the dust from the 
high-cut clerical waistcoat of his gray mohair suit and 
fussily felt the front of his churchman’s collar. Ream¬ 
ing upon the liveryman, he gave him a benediction as 
he fished a tiny tip from the depths of his change purse. 
Benignly he bestowed it, and the chauffeur touched his 
cap as he swore beneath his breath and stepped on 
the gas. 

Then, as the Rector pompously mounted the broad 
stone steps, Judson appeared in the doorway. He had 
hardly expected this guest so soon, and on the tray he 
held was Bleeker’s brandy and soda. But Bleeker was 
nowhere in evidence, being completely concealed by the 
back of the fan-chair in which he was dozing. Aware 
of the minister’s aversion to liquor, Judson was dis¬ 
concerted, but only for a moment; then presence of 
mind rescued him from his sudden dilemma. Appear¬ 
ing to slip as he bowed the distinguished arrival, the 
butler let the tray and its burden drop to the floor 
with a crash. 

“Why, Judson!” Doctor Duane exclaimed, a trifle 
suspiciously, “How very unfortunate!” 

“I’ll fetch another, sir, as soon as I’ve announced 
you,” the butler thanked him. “The day was warm, 
my lord, and I thought you might relish a glass of 
lemonade.” 

“Excellent, excellent, Judson!” the Rector rubbed 
his hands. He liked being addressed as “my lord” and 
his throat was somewhat parched. Respectful little 
attentions like this rubbed him the right way, and he 
sank into a chair with a sigh of satisfaction. It was 
cool beneath the striped awning, and the landscape 
181 


182 


THIS WOMAN 


was inviting, but the journey over had been most 
warm. So, without observing what he did, he picked 
up a copy of Social Chat and began to fan himself. 

But almost instantly he jumped up as Mrs. Rhine- 
beck-Sturdevant appeared, visibly out of humor despite 
her studied calm. Replacing a letter in its envelope, 
she came toward her caller with cool courtesy, and 
formally offered the Rector her hand. “Have I kept 
you waiting?” she asked with absent thoughtfulness as 
Doctor Duane placed a chair. Then, observing the bit 
of ice and shattered glass she raised her eyebrows 
questioningly. 

“The good man was bringing me mild refreshment 
. . . and upset it,” the Rector apologized for the 
butler. “Faithful soul . . . his intentions were of the 
best.” 

Mrs. R.-S. was not quite so sure, since she scented 
the brandy, but at least she gave Judson credit for 
being a well-trained servant. 

“How fresh and charming you look in that dainty 
frock!” the Rector enthused admiringly. “You hardly 
seem any older than our dear Aline . . . whom I trust 
is quite well?” 

“I feel like Methusaleh’s mother this morning!” Mrs. 
R.-S. said with a frown. “Pardon me just a moment 
. . . Oh, Judson. . . 

“Yes, Madam,” the butler paused in picking up the 
debris. 

“There is a gentleman in the library waiting for me. 
It may be that he will ring for you, and perhaps wish 
to speak to the rest of the household. . . .” 

Judson started perceptibly, then quickly recovered 
his poise, and nodded his head gravely as he w^ent into 
the house. For a moment Mrs. R.-S. looked after the 
man, a note of uncertainty clouding her piquant 
features; but with an effort she endeavored to free her 
mind of its burden and turned to try to pick up the 
thread of what she had said to the Rector. 




THIS WOMAN 


183 


“Do sit down!” she exclaimed with suppressed irrita¬ 
tion, as Doctor Duane paced to and fro with his hands 
clasped behind his back. “I am somewhat at a disad¬ 
vantage,” she explained in extenuation. “A series of 
most distressing things have completely upset me. . . .” 

“So what more natural than that you should send 
for me!” the Rector said, composing himself by her 
side. 

“Quite natural!” she answered with obvious irony, 
“since you are one of the causes of my annoyance. . . .” 

“I?” he asked unbelievingly, then flushed as he 
caught the title of the weekly on his lap. “I trust 
that we are not to disagree concerning this vulgar 
sheet. . . .” 

“Did you bring it here for discussion?” she asked 
him bluntly. 

“Mercy, no!” he protested. “I found it ... on 
your table. . . .” 

“It belongs in the waste basket!” Mrs. R.-S. said. 
“But I did not ask you to come to speak of Social 
Chat . . . .” 

“I have frequently scored it in my public utter¬ 
ances ...” he began virtuously. 

“It is your latest public utterance which prompted 
my ’phone call,” she told him. “Do you imagine that 
I will permit you to criticize me and my guests . . . 
unjustly?” 

“But is my criticism unjust?” he asked reproach¬ 
fully. 

“Well, frankly,” she challenged, “Is it?” 

“Now we shall come to an amicable conclusion,” he 
beamed. “I have long hoped for this moment. . . .” 

“I hope it will be a long time before you forget it!” 
she interrupted, her patrician eyes flashing fire. “I 
could hardly restrain myself when I read the morning 
papers, and despite my invariable rule, I was greatly 
tempted to answer you in kind. . . .” 

“Surely you do not mean publicly to assume the role 




184 


THIS WOMAN 


of champion . . . ” he began, horrified, but she 
silenced him with a gesture. 

“For a long time I have patiently borne with your 
nagging reproofs,” she reminded him quietly, and with 
ominous calm. “I have invited you to my home, not 
only as my Rector, but as my friend. . . .” 

“Of which I am deeply sensible,” he assured her 
. . . uneasily. 

“You know that our views are unalike ... on 
certain points. . . .” 

“Then let us strive to make them coincide,” he sug¬ 
gested soothingly. 

“I am afraid that is impossible,” she said icily. 
“Yet despite that fact, I am a woman of the Church 
... of the church over which you preside. I will not 
forsake that church; it means too much to me. I shall 
sit under your pulpit as long as you confine your 
preachments to religion and do not dabble in personal 
matters which do not concern you. . . .” 

“I dare not dwell on the sadness of your pew being 
empty!” he interrupted, the picture of utter dejection. 
It was true . . . such desertion would be disastrous, 
since it would be followed by the families of half of 
his vestry. 

“I myself would regret such a course,” she told him 
plainly, “but it is high time you and I had a thorough 
understanding. You do not approve of my actions 
. . . I do not approve of your methods. Moreover, I 
will not tolerate your attitude toward my friends and 
my protegees. After what I have read just now, I 
shall not be at home to you from this time on, Doctor 
Duane.” 

“But, my dear . . .” he held out his hands beseech¬ 
ingly, and then blushed as a voice at his elbow made 
him realize his supplicating posture. 

“The lemonade, sir,” Judson offered a tray. 

“Confound the lemonade!” exploded the flustered 




THIS WOMAN 


185 


clergyman, coughing behind his hand to conceal his 
embarrassment. 

“That will be all, Judson,” his hostess came to the 
rescue, and the butler softly withdrew, not without an 
inward sense of gratification, in spite of his present 
uneasiness. 

“You scourge me deeply!” the Rector bemoaned at 
last. “I merely endeavor to do my duty according to 
my lights. . . .” 

“Your lights seem different from those of the 
Bishop!” she reminded him sharply. “Only this morn¬ 
ing I received a delightful note from him, and I think 
it might be well if I read you a part of it.” 

She paused to unfold the vellum and the Rector 
squirmed in his chair uncomfortingly. Bishop Rhine- 
beck’s views were all too well known to him, but he 
made no effort to speak as Mrs. R.-S. found the para¬ 
graph and began to read it to him. 

“ ‘I am cheered by the fact that I find no alarming 
hint of Sodom nor of Gomorrah in our modern social 
circles. Laxity of morals, dear lady, must always be 
comparative; and times are changing. ... I think for 
the better. Of course, there are erring ones among the 
best of people, just as we know there are good folks 
among the worst. You know that I have no patience 
with self-styled reformers who cry out from the house¬ 
tops that the whole of our beautiful world is steeped 
in iniquity. . . .’ ” 

She paused and the Rector pursed his lips. “The 
Bishop, of course, is entitled to his opinion. . . .” 

“And am I not entitled to mine?” she cut him short. 
“You apparently do not think so. Your statements in 
this newspaper are not only an insult to me, but a 
gross affront to my friends . . . and to Miss Dray¬ 
ton!” 

“You know I cannot condone any affiliation with the 
stage. . . 




186 


THIS WOMAN 


“I am not asking you to condone anything. I am 
demanding that you hold your scurrilous tongue!” 

He winced, but he would not recede from his trenches. 
“Really, you are doing inestimable harm in your semi- 
adopting of this singer. . . .” 

“Who made you my keeper?” she demanded irately. 

“Let us rather say—spiritual guardian,” he cor¬ 
rected. “It has a less harsh sound.” 

Her glance was scathing, and she bit her lip to hide 
a contemptuous smile. 

“I am quite competent to regulate my own morals 
and to place my own interpretation on those of my 
household,” she informed him in a calmer but no less 
decisive tone. “When I wish your advice I shall 
ask it.” 

“Yet you will not deny the truth in the matter,” he 
urged. “Is it not the case that this charming villa has 
been the scene of gambling and carousing ... of 
intoxicated revels ... of midnight bathing scandals 
and ...” 

“Are you quite aware of what you are suggesting?” 
Mrs. R.-S. asked warningly. 

“Since it offends you,” he bowed his head, “I regret 
to say that I am.” 

“Since you have at least had the courage to say this 
to me personally, I shall forgive it,” she said, “but I 
sent for you to demand a full and public apology in 
the columns of each newspaper that has published your 
insufferable insults. . . .” 

“I . . . retract what I have condemned?” he gasped, 
with a haughty toss of his head. “What you ask is 
impossible. . . .” 

A sonorous snore broke in on his words and increased 
his agitation. 

“Bless me!” he cried, looking about, “what on earth 
was that?” 

“Probably the protest of one of my guests,” she 




THIS WOMAN 


187 


answered sarcastically, “weary, no doubt, of waiting 
for the lemonade Judson brought you so thoughtfully. 55 

“Then it was liquor!” he straightened his shoul¬ 
ders militantly. “And in spite of the fact you 
presume ...” 

“It is you who presume . . . too far!” she silenced 
him. “Unless you make before evening, the public 
apology I require, I shall write to the Bishop . . . pre¬ 
ferring charges against you.” 

“Charges against meV y he repeated incredulously. 

“You have not hesitated to make them against 
others ... to give the support of your censure to a 
baseless libel . . . and in doing so you have helped to 
besmirch the good name of a girl who means much to 
me ... a great deal more, my dear Rector, than you 
and your sort of religion.” 

“But reflect,” he tried to defend himself, almost 
hopelessly. “We must look to a woman in your position 
to set an example of propriety. . . .” 

“That is my aim,” she interrupted. “And I realize 
that the girl who looks to me to protect her reputation 
is entitled to demand a great deal of me . . . more 
than perhaps you imagine. Yet you have slandered 
her and impugned the motives of the man who is doing 
her an inestimable service—training her voice so that 
she may earn her living and give the world pleasure 
through her singing! If you had only directed your 
shafts against me, I should merely have closed my 
doors to you . . . trying as best I might, to reach 
heaven without you . . . but now the time to ignore 
you has passed.” 

Speechless, he stared at her as she slowly arose and 
rang for the butler. Vainly he tried to realize what 
she had said, to find words to persuade her; but as 
Judson appeared in the doorway, she turned her back 
on the dumfounded man. 

Then, as he took his hat and stick from the servant, 
the Rector recovered something of his shattered dig- 




188 


THIS WOMAN 


nity. “I shall never cease to hope,” he began in a 
plaintive tone, “that some day you will under¬ 
stand. . . 

But a crash of chords and a torrent of foreign pro¬ 
fanity drowned out his speech, startling him out of 
his senses. Hysterical screams made him shudder, and 
the windows of the music room were thrown open 
violently. 

“Is someone being murdered?” the Rector stopped 
his ears. 

“Not yet!” said Baptiste Stratini, stepping to the 
veranda. “Would you like to become a martyr?” 




VII. 


“Stratti ! . Will you sit down and stop glaring after 
the man!” Mrs. R.-S. implored him as the Rector went 
down the walk, bristling with pious rage despite his 
apparent dejection. “I’m simply at sixes and sevens 
because of the way things are going.” 

The impresario turned to her with a look of tender 
concern. “Forgive me,” he said, “if I’m adding to 
your troubles; but don’t be so upset over breaking 
with the Church.” 

“I haven't broken with the Church!” she denied 
earnestly. “I’ve merely put a canting churchman 
where he belongs. . . 

“Quite so,” nodded Stratini. “The Church itself is 
never wrong, and the world isn’t topsy-turvy. The 
trouble’s with the people who try to run both.” 

“But about Carol,” Mrs. R.-S. went on anxiously. 
“Is she deeply hurt ... or merely naughty again?” 

Stratini shrugged. “The girl is distracting this 
morning . . . yet I can hardly blame her. Quite evi¬ 
dently this nonsense has made her mind run riot, so I 
naturally insisted on our usual practice. First she 
sang like a screech owl; then refused to sing at all; 
backed into the corner and spat at me like a wild-cat 
. . . with the result that you heard. But all this is 
nothing . . . she will get over it.” 

“Aline feels that she is suffering needlessly . . . 
brooding over some fancied trouble she will not ex¬ 
plain,” Mrs. R.-S. told him, “but I want to discuss that 
with you later on,” she suddenly stopped as she realized 
the butler’s presence. 

“Has the gentleman in the library sent for you?” she 
asked. 


189 


190 


THIS WOMAN 


“Not jet, Madam,” Judson replied, ill at ease, but 
masking his nervousness admirably. 

“Then ask all the servants to go there at once,” she 
directed. “I shall wish to speak to them presently.” 

“Just what is all this?” Stratini asked as the butler 
made his exit. “And who is in the library?” 

“A detective,” she told him guardedly. “I ’phoned 
for him an hour ago. Oh, it’s nothing to do with this 
business in the papers; in fact, it’s something even 
more disturbing.” 

“Yes?” he arched his eyebrows. 

She nodded. “Estelle Delancey came to my room in 
tears before I was up. It seems that Freddy recently 
gave her a string of rather valuable emeralds. They 
are gone.” 

“Hum!” Stratini mused. “That is awkward. The 
fair Estelle is so careless with her treasures!” 

“How so?” 

“Have you not read between the lines of that story 
in Social Chat?” he asked with a sardonic smile. 
“Don’t you realize that Estelle is frightfully jealous 
of Carol . . . that the winsome Mrs. Delancey’s claws 
are sharpened for me?” 

“But what has that to do with her necklace?” 

“Perhaps nothing . . . perhaps everything",” Stra¬ 
tini said. “But what interests me most is the author¬ 
ship of that squib in the tattle-sheet . . . the innuendo 
as to what went on in the shadow of overhanging cliffs. 
Somehow I feel that Estelle might tell us something 
of that.” 

“You mean that one of my guests would inform a 
scandal-monging editor of what takes place—at my 
house . . . ?” 

“It is not impossible,” he assured her with a superior 
air. “Moreover, the initiation of gossip concerning 
another person might well serve as a cloak for a woman 
who’s guilty herself.” 

“Stratti, you’re too suspicious!” she reproved, un- 




THIS WOMAN 


191 


believingly. “Estelle is a very foolish young matron, 
and her condition the other night displeased me exceed¬ 
ingly . . . yet I cannot believe she would stoop to a 
thing so contemptible.” 

“At least say the situation is somewhat interesting,” 
he made a careless gesture. “In the meantime, suppose 
we find the Raffles in our midst. . . .” 

“That is my chief difficulty,” Mrs. R.-S. sighed. “I 
cannot suspect my servants, but I am going to have 
them examined. It’s only fair to let them prove their 
innocence.” 

He agreed. “Then each of us must submit to a 
similar search,” he declared emphatically. “Also, I 
wish to have a chat with Estelle. I don’t like pretty 
women to keep their secrets from me. . . .” 

“I shouldn’t care to try,” she smiled at him con¬ 
fidently. “You’re too uncannily discerning.” 

“We shall see!” he laughed and slipped his arm 
through hers. “Suppose we go in and talk with this 
astute detective. Perhaps his mistaken deductions will 
help us to solve the problem.” 

Hardly had they entered the living-hall when Carol 
peered cautiously out of the music room windows. Her 
nervousness was not eased in the least and her cheeks 
were wet with tears as she kept herself in concealment 
until the two had gone. Then, in a quandary, she hur¬ 
ried out on the porch, desperately clutching her work- 
bag with twitching fingers. For a moment she gazed 
across the lawn toward the lodge gate as though con¬ 
templating flight; but that would only admit her guilt 
in the eyes of the others. Besides, she had nowhere 
to go. 

In her consternation, she tore open the bag and her 
fingers caught at the jewels. The stones seemed to 
burn her flesh and she wished to be rid of them. Jud- 
son would readily lie to the detective, and if Carol were 
searched, her workbag would condemn her. Even with¬ 
out a word from the butler, the Reformatory release 




192 


THIS WOMAN 


and the emeralds themselves would be damning evidence 
against which no amount of explanation could be ex¬ 
pected to prevail. Obviously, the thing to do was to 
rid herself of the bag’s contents, yet despite her dislike 
for Estelle, she knew that she ought to return the 
stolen stones. Anyone who was honest, with nothing 
to lose, would have done so long ago . . . and the 
mere fact that she had kept them only made matters 
worse. They might not prove her a thief, but she could 
not prove otherwise. 

Feeling herself cornered, and too distracted to think, 
she flung herself into the swing-seat, and burst out sob¬ 
bing convulsively. Then, as she heard footsteps behind 
her, she quickly concealed the workbag and daubed at, 
her eyes with her handkerchief as Whitney paused by 
her side. 

“You’re in trouble!” he said solicitously, bending 
over her. “Won’t you let me help you, Carol dear?” 

She wished he would cradle her in his arms and let 
her sob on his shoulder . . . listen while she told him 
all that was in her heart; yet she dared not yield to 
her desire for the comfort he might give . . . the pro¬ 
tection he would not deny, no matter what he believed. 
That he would uphold her, she was certain; yet she 
felt with a pang that she had no right to permit him 
to do so. It would be bad enough when he should learn 
what he must know some day; but he would never 
believe she had been wrongly condemned if he thought 
her a thief in the bargain. Love her as he might . . . 
in the way such a man must love . . . Whitney could 
only pity her if she told him her story. And in neither 
case against her, could Carol establish her innocence. 
In each instance an accusing finger pointed with seem¬ 
ing truth, and the more she might plead her lack of 
guilt, the more skeptical they would be . . . for she 
knew that a woman once condemned is damned irrev¬ 
ocably. Even those who mock at morals scorn dis- 




THIS WOMAN 


193 


honesty. The law had proclaimed her a harlot; now 
circumstance branded her thief. 

Pitifully lovely in her despondent grief, she looked 
up at him, and then cringed from his touch, gentle 
though it was, and the pain she read in his drawn 
features only cut her more deeply. She was to blame 
for his suffering and her yielding would mar his 
future; so if he persisted, only one course remained 
open to her. Other women had done it, and weary men 
who were worth while, too . . . worth while because 
they realized their own unworthiness. And that course 
was to damn herself, even in Whitney’s eyes ... to 
make him loathe her as ardently as it was plain that 
he loved her. 

“Please don’t talk to me now,” she put off the 
moment she dreaded. “I want to be alone ... to try 
to think a little.” 

“Carol, I feel like a cad!” he told her desperately. 
“I’d have given everything to prevent what’s hap¬ 
pened. As it is, dear, I can’t tell you how unhappy it 
makes me . . . but I want to do what I can to prove 
that I care . . . more than you can imagine!” 

“I wish you didn’t care so much!” she said with dis¬ 
torted truth. It would be easier if he did not . . . yet 
pitifully harder! 

“You don’t mean that!” he protested. “I can’t 
believe it, dear. A woman like you doesn’t cling to a 
man as you did, and give him back kiss for kiss . . . 
unless she does mean it! Carol, until this morning I 
meant to ask you to marry me . . . and I still wish I 
might. . . .” 

“But of course you can’t . . . now!” she said with 
bitter misinterpretation. 

“No,” he agreed awkwardly, after a pause, “you’re 
right ... of course . . . since I’ve nothing to offer 
you.” 

Her eyes met his quickly, and then she understood; 
partly, at least, comprehended his hesitation; and her 




194 


THIS WOMAN 


heart laughed a little as she sensed that she had been 
wrong in her understanding. 

“That isn’t fair to yourself,” she told him gently. 
“You’d everything to offer me . . . when you loved 
me. . . .” 

“When I loved you!” he cried out in anguish. “When 
haven't I loved you . . . from that first moment I saw 
you, drenched and shivering as they lifted you from 
the fountain! But it’s different now, dear . . . and 
I want you to understand why. ... I haven’t a cent 
in the world.” 

He looked away, shamefacedly, but a wonderful light 
of happiness came into Carol’s eyes. “Whitney!” she 
cried in alarm, filled with concern for him. “You mean 
that because of me . . . your uncle has ...” 

“Behaved like a cruel landlord . . * like the villain 
in a play . . . cut me off and disowned me!” He 
laughed, but his mirth was bitter, because he felt that 
it meant losing her . . . because he blamed himself for 
not being independent. 

“Oh, Whitney!” was all she could say, yet she 
thrilled at the touch of his hands as he put them on 
hers . . . desperately despondent, yet vaguely hopeful. 

“It’s absurd, of course,” he went on in a matter-of- 
fact sort of tone, resigned, yet enraged at himself. 
“You see I’ve never taken life very seriously . . . 
never had to. The Duanes have never done anything 
but what it pleased them to do . . . and I’ve always 
considered myself the heir to a fortune too large for 
a man to spend reasonably. . . .” 

“Do you need a great fortune?” she asked, but she 
looked away, for she could not meet his eager eyes as he 
answered, 

“You know I do!” he said simply, and the reply sur¬ 
prised her . . . even hurt her a little. The declara¬ 
tion she dreaded was really the one she wanted . . . 
but it seemed he had no intention of saying a thing so 
foolish. 




THIS WOMAN 


195 


“Love in a garret’s well enough for those who were 
born in a garret,” he went on, “but happiness, like 
everything else, depends upon what one wants ... the 
things one cares about. Of course, I shan’t be a pau¬ 
per. My law practice is profitable, and I can make 
it more so; but that will necessitate giving up polo and 
playing about the world. I don’t mind that . . . but 
it means getting down to earth. . . .” 

“Perhaps we’d all be better off if we did,” she mused 
aloud. “But tell me, Whitney, when did your uncle 
do this . . . ?” 

“Just now,” he said. “A little sooner than I antici¬ 
pated, but it was bound to come. I’d meant to go 
and see him, and he might have listened to reason . . . 
but of course, I had to run into him unexpectedly. He 
was coming down the walk on the way from here, and 
for a dignified clergyman, he was certainly up in the 
air. . . .” 

“Perhaps it’s not fair to blame him,” she half- 
defended, for despite her resentment of all that the 
Rector had said, she could understand the view he 
must take of her . . . the attitude which he must 
maintain when the rest of the story came out. 

“Oh, everyone’s sick of his preaching!” Whitney ex¬ 
claimed in disgust, “and I wasn’t in any mood to be 
chastened. So I spoke to him rather frankly . . . and 
he flew up at once. I couldn’t get a word in . . . and 
he told me just where I get off!” 

In spite of his discomfiture and his deep-seated sense 
of injustice, he smiled at the memory of the scene on 
the walk. Almost beside himself, the Rector had 
snapped his walking stick like a twig as he clenched it 
in his pudgy hands and gave free vent to his rage. 
He had prophesied dire disasters and washed his hands 
of the world, saying that those who were bent on at¬ 
taining their own destruction might dance along on 
their road to hell for all it mattered to him. 





196 


THIS WOMAN 


“I seem to have contaminated everyone!” Carol 
grieved ruefully. 

“Carol, how can you!” he drew her closer to him. 
“You’ve made me very happy . . . and you’ll make me 
happier still if I mean enough to you ... to make 
you wait a little . . . until I have enough of my own 
to give you all you deserve ... !” 

“I’m afraid you don’t really know me!” she said 
with a sad little smile. “I haven’t always known luxu¬ 
ries . . . and although I suppose I’ve been spoiled of 
late . . . I’d gladly exchange material things for a 
little happiness. . . .” 

“Wont you let me bring it to you?” he pleaded 
eagerly, “and let me work to give you the comforts you 
ought to have?” 

“The comforts would come in time ... if the 
other were possible,” she told him regretfully, “but it 
isn’t . . . because I’m afraid that 1 can’t bring you 
happiness.” 

“Not if you withhold it!” he reproached her. 

“I’m not doing that . . . I’m only being frank with 
myself . . . and you. If I dared give way to my feel¬ 
ings, the love you offer me would mean everything in 
the world . . . more than anything else you could ever 
give me . . . but why deceive ourselves? I can’t 
marry you.” 

There was despondent finality in her tone, and the 
tearing of her heartstrings reflected itself in her eyes, 
but she hid them from Whitney’s gaze as he drew away 
a little. 

“Can’t?” he repeated, resentfully. “There can’t be 
any real reason . . . except your pride. Oh, I don’t 
mean your refusing me because I’ve said that I’m poor 
. . . but because you’re blaming yourself for some¬ 
thing you couldn’t help. The Rector’s attack is un¬ 
speakable, and I mean to make him retract it!” 

“Why ?” asked Carol resignedly. “A little while ago 
... in my bitter anger ... I hoped that I might 




THIS WOMAN 


197 


confront him! . . . but now ... I only hope I shall 
never meet the man.” 

“Why should you?” he eliminated the need. “He 
has relieved me of all sense of obligation. As my 
■wife, he would hardly venture even to mention your 
name!” 

“That would not erase the stain he has put upon 
it!” 

“But you must see his warped opinion doesn’t mat¬ 
ter to me . . . nor to any of those who love you . . . 
as we all do!” 

“As you think you do . . . without knowing!” she 
silenced him with sudden decision, for she felt that 
she could not bear his continued pleading. Hungry 
as she was for his caresses, lonely as she felt in her 
misery, she could not risk the thrill of his touch any 
longer; and she pushed him away from her as she 
arose very slowly. 

“Please, Carol!” he uttered a last appeal. “I want 
you to know I’m in earnest . . . more earnest than 
I’ve ever been in all my foolish life. I know I have 
ability, although I’ve concealed it well . . . and if 
I thought you’d wait for me, I’d work with all that’s 
in me.” 

“I want you to do that . . . for your own sake!” 
she told him fondly. “But let us be sensible. Neither 
of us are children . . . and I have no childish illu¬ 
sions. No matter how far I may rise, or how deep 
I may sink ... I shall never stop caring for you . . . 
but Whitney, dear, there are reasons why my giving 
in to you would be the height of folly!” 

For a moment he stood before her in silence, then his 
eyes met hers with a look of challenge. “Very well!” 
he said sharply. “Since you take that attitude, why 
not be fair about it? I’ve confessed my own situation 
fully. If you do love me, you owe it to me to tell me 
why you won’t be my wife!” 




198 


THIS WOMAN 


“Isn’t it enough that I’ve told you no?” she recoiled 
from the confession he wished to exact. 

“No, it isn’t,” he said. “You choose to let me 
infer that you’ve done something infamous . . . and, 
frankly, dear, I don’t believe you. But even if that 
were true . . . and I know it isn’t . . . there’s noth¬ 
ing you ever could tell me that would make me love 
you the less. . . .” 

“Perhaps you think so,” she put him off, “but it 
never works out that way. At the moment, my secret’s 
my own ... I prefer to keep it so . . . but whether 
or not I tell you, you’d be bound to find out. Then, 
if we were married, dear ... it would make a differ¬ 
ence. Oh, I know it would, and you must know it, too! 
Even if you were wonderfully generous, I could never 
forget. . . .” 

“I’ll make you forget . . . this senseless bugaboo 1” 
he pledged himself earnestly. “And it’s nothing more 
than that, you dear . . . you know it couldn’t be! 
Whatever you think stands in our way ... I want 
you because you’re you!” 

“No, Whitney . . . you'll have to forget about me. 
There would be times when you’d wonder . . . and 
wonder leads to doubt . . . and the end of the Blue 
Bird trail. A man must do more than love his wife 
... he must be sure of her. He wants to 'know that 
she’s all his . . . that she always has been . . . and 
always will be!” 

“I haven’t noticed it!” he scoffed, “at least not 
among our friends.” 

“Is that the sort of marriage you’d like to enter 
into?” she took him to task in disgust. “I’d rather 
give myself to you than be your wife in that way!” 

“Your own words prove you’re pure!” he cried ex¬ 
ultantly. “You couldn’t feel as you do if you weren’t 
all that you should be!” 

“Oh, Whitney . . . don’t!” she tried to elude him in 




THIS WOMAN 


199 


a torture of doubt. “Can’t you see, dear heart, that 
you’re breaking mine!” 

“Oh, you darling!” he cried as he caught her 
fiercely to him, smothering her protests with his kisses. 
“Now I am sure of you. . . .” 

“Whoa, there!” came a warning laugh from the 
doorway, and Aline peered out at them with a joy¬ 
ous smile in her eyes. “If you don’t desire an audi¬ 
ence, you’d better break away. Sherlock Holmes is 
coming to search for the missing jewels. . . .” 

“For the missing what?” asked Whitney, embar¬ 
rassed despite his amusement over Aline’s melo¬ 
dramatic pretense. 

“Oh, you needn’t think you’re going to get away 
with it!” she turned up her nose at him. “We’ve all 
been through the ordeal . . . down to the kitchen 
maids . . . and since nobody had the necklace, you 
or Carol must have it.” 

“I don’t get the big idea,” Whitney said, puzzled 
over the serious note in her banter, and Carol closed 
her eyes in unbearable anguish. Just behind her on 
the swing, was the workbag, yet she knew she could 
not touch it, although it screamed at her in its 
mute accusation. She wished she might sink through 
the floor, that she might die as she stood there, and 
she dared not raise her head to look at Whitney. 

“Oh, you’ll j get it all right!” Aline replied irre¬ 
pressibly. “What do you mean by stealing things 
from lovely married ladies?” 

Whitney laughed. “I don’t know what you’re talk¬ 
ing about, you crazy little loon, but I never stole a 
single thing from any married . . .” 

“Oh, is that so?” Aline shook her finger at him. 
“Tell it to the deteckatiff! Maybe he’ll believe you!” 




VIII. 


“Of course you two won’t mind,” Mrs. Rhinebeck- 
Sturdevant said with a smile, as she and Stratini came 
out on the porch with a short, stocky man, whose 
features made Whitney think of a grotesque owl. 

“Naturally not,” he acquiesced, “Aline has just 
been telling us of Estelle’s misfortune.” And he 
nodded to the detective. “Go to it whenever you’re 
ready . . . Mr. Brown, is it?” 

“Thank you ... in just a moment, Mr. Duane,” 
the little man said, peering at Carol curiously through 
his bone-rimmed glasses. “I wonder if I haven’t met 
this lady before?” 

“I hardly think so,” Mrs. R.-S. shook her head. 
“I explained to you about Miss Drayton.” 

“Oh, yes,” the detective went on affably, but Carol 
found herself cringing beneath the man’s curious 
scrutiny. She could no more remember encountering 
him, than he could place seeing her, yet he seemed 
to associate the girl with some recent incident. “I 
was mistaken, of course,” he denied deliberately, but 
his effort to put her at her ease did not tend to calm 
Carol. 

Feeling herself the center of attention and shrink¬ 
ing from casual glances that seemed to her shafts of 
suspicion, she thought she must scream at the sight 
of the workbag. Perhaps her inquisitor would never 
notice it there; then when he was gone, she could 
restore the jewels to Estelle’s room. But even with 
this vain hope, the remnants of her composure fled, 
and the man’s keen gray eyes seemed to bore her very 
soul. 

“Would you like Miss Drayton to go to my 
200 


THIS WOMAN 


201 


room?” Mrs. R.-S. inquired. “No doubt she will feel 
relieved when this formal search is over ... I as¬ 
sume you will trust me to make it?” 

“Shortly,” he answered perplexedly, toying with 
his glasses. “Of course it’s quite absurd, but I pride 
myself on my memory, and I’m wondering whether 
Miss Drayton would tell me about herself . . . where 
she was, for instance, before she came to you ... a 
little, perhaps, of this matter she’s keeping from 
you. . . .” 

“This is absurd and impertinent!” Whitney ex¬ 
claimed in a rage. “Are you going to permit this 
stranger . . . ?” 

“Oh, let him alone,” came a chuckle from Stratini. 
“His methods are rather amusing . . . and some¬ 
what like my own.” 

But Carol had borne enough of the rack of the 
man’s inquisition . . . enough of deception and tor¬ 
ture . . . and clutching up the handbag, she cried 
aloud in her anguish. 

“You needn’t stare at me like that!” her voice 
rang out in her torment. “I’ll tell you whatever you 
want to know . . . anything to end this!” 

“Mummy, it isn’t fair . . . you’re brutes, all of 
you!” Aline stormed at them and threw her arms 
about Carol. “She’ll be a nervous wreck if you 
don’t let her alone . . . and besides, it’s too silly 
for words to think that she has the necklace. . . .” 

“I haven’t the slightest desire to be rude,” Brown 
said apologetically. “Miss Drayton seems to be 
making a mountain out of a molehill.” 

“That’ll be enough!” Whitney menaced the man. 
“Any more hints like that and Fll handle this matter. 
I happen to be an attorney and I suggest that Miss 
Drayton let me reply for her. . . .” 

“She isn’t accused of anything, so far as I’m 
aware,” the detective smiled at his fervor. “But 




202 


THIS WOMAN 


evidently Miss Drayton would rather not answer my 
question ?” 

“I really don’t see why she should!” Mrs. R.-S. in¬ 
tervened, but Stratini drew her aside. 

“It’s hardly fair to hamper the man, since you’ve 
called him in. Besides, I agree with him that Carol 
seems rather childish. . . And he frowned at her 
disapprovingly. 

“I think you’re inhuman!” Aline burst out, “when 
you know her state of mind.” 

“Please don’t bother!” Carol freed herself from 
her arms. “Why shouldn't you know where I came 
from . . . that perhaps he has seen me before ... !” 
Then she clutched at her throat and paused for 
breath, holding onto the back of the fan-chair as 
she swayed with emotion. 

“What the devil!” came a voice from the depths of 
the chair, and Gramercy Bleeker’s head peered over 
the top at her. “How do? What’s all the excite¬ 
ment ?” 

His lanky form arose from behind the wicker cur¬ 
tain, and he stared at the group as though puzzled 
to understand their tense, unaccustomed manner. For 
a moment no one spoke, and Gramercy lurched as 
he leaned toward the servant’s bell. 

“Where the deuce’s that idiot Judson?” he mut¬ 
tered aloud, “been waitin’ for him for an hour. . . .” 
Then he leaned on the pushbutton, wavering ludi¬ 
crously. 

“Do show an atom of sense!” Mrs. R-.S. exclaimed. 
“I might have known you were snoring there when 
the Rector was here.” 

“Now don’t touch me, old top ... I don’t like 
it!” Bleeker turned upon Stratini with a petulant air. 
“Somehow I’m always missin’ the Rector . . . snooz¬ 
in’ when he’s preachin’ sermons is gettin’ to be a habit. 

. . . What?” 

Impatiently, Carol knotted the cords of her work- 




THIS WOMAN 


203 


bag, and with an effort regained control of herself. 
“Why go on with this farce?” she exploded, and 
Bleeker grinned at her stupidly, as he ran his fingers 
perplexedly through his touseled hair. 

“Farce?” he repeated. “ ’S funny! I thought 
it was a tragedy . . . the way you’re all lookin’ so 
glum. . . . Oh, here you are!” he beamed, as Jud- 
son answered the bell he had rung. 

“Really, Gram!” Mrs. R.-S. stamped her foot. “I 
must insist. . . .” 

“Now don’t spoil the party!” Bleeker waved her 
away. “I’m gonna spring a surprise!” Then, in a 
twinkling, he straightened up, and the sleep in his 
eyes vanished as he turned upon the butler with a 
cynical smile. “Judson, old dear, it’s a crime, and 
I hate to go back on a pal, but I don’t like to have 
my drinks mixed by a sneakin’ thief!” 

Like a flash the butler stiffened, and fear came 
into his eyes; then, with unruffled calm, he smilingly 
bowed. “A thief, Mr. Bleeker?” he said. “Thank 
you, sir.” 

“Don’t thank me!” Bleeker shrugged, “the credit’s 
all yours, and the fault, I’m sure. ... If you’d made 
those drinks a bit stronger, I’d never have got on to 
you.” 

“Is this man sober? 9 * demanded Brown, impatient at 
the delay, yet watching the butler intently. 

“Perfectly, I’m sorry to say,” Bleeker assured him. 
“If you’re the judge and jury, why don’t you ask old 
Judson where he hid the necklace?” 

“Where I hid it, sir?” the butler repeated with 
well-feigned amazement. “Really, sir, I . . .” 

“Well, really , sir!" Bleeker mimicked, “just suppose 
you tell them where I saw you put it /” 

“I’m sure it’s all Greek to me, sir . . . whatever 
you’re talkin’ about!” Judson persisted. “Madam, I 
appeal to you. . . .” 

“You’re acting’s good, but it won’t do!” Bleeker 




204 


THIS WOMAN 


interrupted, then he turned to Carol, with a twinkle 
in his eyes. “If you’ll look in your workbag, Song¬ 
bird, I think you’ll find something pretty.” 

Carol gave vent to a sigh of relief as she realized 
that Bleeker must know all that had taken place. The 
thought that he was aware of her having been in 
prison did not even disturb her. Perhaps she could 
mitigate that offense if she was cleared of the other 
... if Bleeker’s testimony proved she was not ^ 
thief. And with fingers that could hardly free its 
knots, she tried to open the bag, eager to rid her¬ 
self of its incriminating contents. 

“Surely you don’t think I took them!” she im¬ 
plored, as she drew out the glittering string of 
iridescent stones. “Oh, Gramercy, tell them . . . 
do!” 

“It’s a frame-up ... a lie!” shouted Judson 
throatily. “He’s only tryin’ to shield the girl. Why, 
in that very bag there’s proof . . .” 

But Bleeker’s fist swung out and crashed into Jud- 
son’s jaw, thudding his hurtling body against the 
wall. Grunting with pain, the butler recovered him¬ 
self, groggily. 

“You damned drunk!” he screamed, nursing his in¬ 
jury, as he braced himself for a blow, and lunged at 
his assailant. “I’ll get you for that if they hang me!” 

Carol screamed and the men leaped forward as 
the steel of an automatic gleamed in his quick moving 
hand; but Bleeker only chuckled as he stepped back 
a pace, and, making a deft motion, neatly disarmed 
the butler, holding his twisted arm in a vice-like 
grip. 

“Clever little trick, what?” he grinned at the sur¬ 
prised man. “Learned it from an almond-eye in 
Japan.” Then, as the handcuffs clicked upon Jud- 
son’s wrists, Bleeker emptied the automatic chamber 
and jokingly offered the bullets to Aline. 

“Have one?” he asked her teasingly; “steel-nosed 




THIS WOMAN 


205 


pellets for stupid people . . . never fail to cure but¬ 
ting-in ... if they’re taken in time!” 

“Judson, I’m really grieved!” Mrs. R.-S. said sin¬ 
cerely, “after all these years that you’ve been in my 
service!” 

“That isn’t the half of it!” Bleeker broke in with 
a moan, fearing to give the butler a chance to reply. 
“What on earth am I going to do for cocktails now!” 

“Oh, Mummy!” Aline exclaimed, sensing Bleeker’s 
desire to have Mrs. R.-S. leave them, “do go and tell 
Estelle . . . she’ll be so relieved!” 

“Of course, dear,” her mother said as Stratini and 
the detective led Judson away. “I must take her the 
necklace at once, before anything happens to it.” 

“But you can’t do that,” Whitney broke in. “Let 
me give it to Stratti . . . the detective will probably 
wish it as evidence against Judson . . . besides, I 
want a word with this hawkshaw.” 

“Whitney, I wish you wouldn’t,” Carol said quickly, 
fearful of the result of such a discussion, but Bleeker 
caught her eye and slowly shook his head. For an 
instant Carol wavered, her fingers groping inside the 
bag and timorously touching the slip of paper which 
nestled safely there. 

“There’s nothing to be afraid of now,” Bleeker 
whispered to her. “For the present keep mum . . . 
and don't show that slip to anyone /” 




IX. 


In the spacious paneled library, a perfect replica 
of an ancient manor hall, Stratini looked like a feudal 
duke as he sat at the head of the massive center table 
of antique, carved black oak. With his monocle nicely 
adjusted beneath his shaggy gray brow, he scrutinized 
the prisoner with a look of inscrutable cunning. 

Judson, with Brown at his elbow, was palpably 
nervous and apprehensive, now that his outburst of 
fury had subsided somewhat. Avoiding Stratini’s 
relentless stare, he shuffled his feet awkwardly upon 
the thick, soft carpet, and the manacles on his wrists 
clinked as he clasped and unclasped his hands. Stra- 
tini selected a cigarette and lit it with thoughtful 
care; then he examined the empty gun in his hand. 
As he did so, the door opened and Whitney Duane 
came into the room with the air of a district attorney. 

Seating himself in a high baronial chair, he placed 
Estelle’s necklace in front of him on the table and 
turned to the impresario inquiringly. Stratini smiled 
as he picked it up and trickled the stones through 
his fingers. They sparkled in the subdued light which 
filtered through leaded panes . . . and he seemed to 
weigh them expertly ... as though dubious of their 
worth . . . quite evidently appraising their intrinsic 
temptation. 

“Imbecile!” he exclaimed at last, and gazed with 
contempt at Judson. “What made you risk your place 
and your liberty for a bauble of so little value?” 

The detective stared at the jewels in amazement 
and Whitney’s face took on a curious expression. 

“They are good,” Stratini grudged, with a con¬ 
noisseur’s indifference, “yet hardly worth the price 
206 


THIS WOMAN 


207 


you will have to pay . . . certainly not fine enough 
to risk murder to obtain.” 

“I told you I didn’t take them !” Judson cried out 
excitedly. “Mr. Bleeker knows how they got in that 
bag . . . but I didn’t put them there. He’s lying, 
Signor Stratini!” 

“You mean,” Stratini corrected, “that he’s told 
but a part of the truth. That’s what you’re doing, 
Judson . . . and you’re lying in the bargain. Aren’t 
you rather foolish?” 

“What’s the use of my talking?” the man demanded 
belligerently. “You won’t believe me . . . and no¬ 
body’s going to help me prove what I say!” 

“Why should anyone? Why should it be neces¬ 
sary ... if you’re prepared to make a confession?” 
Stratini asked quietly, flicking the ash from his 
cigarette. 

“You wouldn’t let me go on, out on the porch!” 
Judson accused. “When I tried to explain, Mr. 
Bleeker walloped me. . . .” 

“Quite properly,” said Stratini. “If he hadn’t, you 
might be on your way to the electric chair ... so 
it seems to me you owe him a debt of gratitude.” 

“Well, I’m not going to stand the blame alone!” 
Judson declared sullenly. 

“Ah!” Stratini raised his eyebrows. “Now we shall 
get along better. Just who , if you please, ought to 
suffer with you?” 

“You know as well as I do!” Judson flashed at him. 

“Perhaps,” nodded Stratini, “but it would be more 
clubby if you’d tell me. I should very much hate to 
make a mistake in the matter.” 

Judson sneered. “Oh, you won’t make any mistake 
. . . because you want to protect her. . . .” 

“Protect whom?” demanded Stratini, leaning for¬ 
ward on the table. 

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?” Judson shot 





208 


THIS WOMAN 


at him. “Well, I know what I know . . . and I’ll tell 
it . . . but not to you!” 

“Suit yourself,” said Stratini. “But just bear this 
in mind. Mr. Brown, at your elbow, is not of the 
police. He is here at the request of Mrs. Bhinebeck- 
Sturdevant. Unless we deem it necessary, the police 
may not be called . . . and whether or not they are, 
depends upon you.” 

“Does it?” growled the butler, jerking his hand¬ 
cuffs violently. “If you think you can buy my silence, 
you’re mistaken. You can send me to jail if you 
like, but if you do I’ll stir up a scandal you’ll never 
hear the last of. . . 

“Why waste time with the man, Stratti?” Whitney 
put in. “There’s no question of his guilt and Bleeker’s 
testimony will be quite sufficient to give him a jail 
sentence. . . 

“You try to send me up and I’ll peach on her!" 
Judson spat at him desperately. “You think you can 
get away with whatever you like, because you’re a rich, 
crooked lawyer! Well, all your shyster tricks won’t 
keep this singing woman out of the mess if I tell what I 
know about her!” 

White with fury, Whitney sprang to his feet, fists 
clenched and his eyes blazing. Then, with a ges¬ 
ture of helplessness, his hands dropped to his sides. 
Obviously he could not strike the manacled man, and 
his impotence drove him frantic; but Stratini calmly 
intervened and came to the rescue. 

“I don’t see how you can help us, Whit, and I wish 
you and Brown would leave me alone with Judson,” 
he said with a nod of dismissal toward the detective. 
“There is a little matter I should like to discuss in 
private with this estimable person.” 

“What are you going to do with me?” shrieked the 
suspicious man, drawing back from the piercing glance 
Stratini gave him. 

“Oh, I’m not going to flay you alive, or torture you 





THIS WOMAN 


209 


physically,” the impresario said. “In fact, Brown, 
you may release his hands. I’m only going to ask 
him a question or two . . . and he’s going to tell me 
the truth.” 

“Very well, sir,” Brown bowed and unlocked the 
handcuffs. “I’ll be just outside when you want me.” 

Stratini nodded, and Judson, furtively watching the 
window, moved a trifle nearer the casement. Stratini 
made no move to stop him. Instead, he folded his 
hands behind his back and with bowed head walked 
to the empty fireplace. He heard the door close as 
Whitney and Brown went out, and then he smiled 
covertly, and peered round at Judson. 

“You’re playing a thankless game!” he ridiculed 
the butler. “With the charges that can be pressed, 
you’ll serve at least twenty years. That’s practically 
life at your age, Judson.” 

The butler did not answer. His gaze was intent 
upon the window. 

“Do you find it warm in here?” Stratini asked 
smilingly, and Judson started guiltily. “It will be 
warmer for you, my man, if you attempt to warn 
whoever’s listening there!” 

“Listening?” stammered the butler. “I don’t under¬ 
stand you, sir.” 

“Correct!” Stratini’s teeth snapped. “You don’t, 
or you wouldn’t defy me. Judson, I’m not in the least 
concerned with what becomes of you, and the theft 
of Mrs. Delancey’s necklace does not interest me in 
the least. Yet there is something you know about a 
certain lady which would interest me very much.” 

An evil glint came into the butler’s eyes and he 
glanced toward the door apprehensively. “Suppose I 
do tell you?” he asked in a guarded tone. 

“Let us rather suppose what will happen if you 
don’t!” Stratini paused to light a fresh cigarette.. “I 
am not so dense that I cannot see through your little 
game. A moment ago you mentioned Miss Drayton.” 




210 


THIS WOMAN 


Slowly he exhaled a great lungful of pungent smoke. 
“Of course you read what our friend the Rector said, 
and you know what took place on the porch this morn¬ 
ing. Naturally, you assume that your mistress is dis¬ 
tressed by all this publicity . . . and you feel that 
she might be willing to take certain steps to avoid 
any further scandal.” 

Judson grinned. “You look like the devil himself!” 
he scanned Stratini’s features. “I wonder if you airCt 
him!” 

Stratini brushed back his hair and fingered his 
waxed mustache as he stared at his reflection in the 
polished shield of a stand of armor. “Hum!” he 
murmured. “The Mephisto resemblance is rather 
striking. . . . Perhaps the good Doctor Duane has 
observed it.” 

His apparent preoccupation threw Judson off his 
guard, and, underrating the impresario’s cunning, he 
felt that he might still deceive his inquisitor. “I 
wanted to tell the truth, sir,” he insisted earnestly, 
“only I thought you knew it, and wouldn’t let me.” 

“How so?” Stratini wheeled on him. 

“Well, sir,” Judson went on, “this corporation busi¬ 
ness, and you and Mr. Bleeker and Mr. Whitney, all 
trying to hush up things about Miss Carol. . . .” 

“Hush up what things?” Stratini demanded with 
narrowed eyes. “Just what do you think we’re con¬ 
cealing ?” 

“What those two wouldn’t let her tell the detec¬ 
tive!” Judson told him. “I guess I was wrong, sir 
. . . but I thought you knew it, too . . . well, sir, 
if I may say so . . . because I believed what the Rec¬ 
tor thinks about you and Miss Carol.” 

“Bah!” snapped Stratini. “Either you are a great 
ninny or an absurd rogue.” 

“I’m sorry, sir,” the butler apologized, “but it 
seemed a bit strange, sir. . . .” 

“That a man of my caliber might honestly wish 




THIS WOMAN 


211 


to help the girl?” Stratini said sarcastically. “You 
are a credit to the circle in which you serve, Judson. 
Thank God, you do not reflect the views of your mis¬ 
tress and Miss Aline . . . even though you have been 
absorbing the suspicions and opinions of their guests!” 

Visibly startled by his remark, Judson dropped his 
eyes and Stratini took a quick step toward him. 
“Who’s outside that window?” he asked with a smile. 

“I—I don’t know, sir. . . 

“Shall we look and see,” Stratini suggested, “or 
would you prefer to tell me just how you obtained this, 
necklace and why you put it in Miss Drayton’s work- 
bag?” 

“I didn’t put it there!” Judson stoutly maintained, 
with an uneasy glance toward the casement. 

“Keep your voice down!” Stratini ordered. “Then 
stop these deliberate misstatements. You did hide the 
jewels there, and you didn’t take them from Mrs. De- 
lancey because their value tempted you. Your whole 
scheme is nothing more nor less than blackmail. Now 
out with it, you fool, or instead of jailing you, I’ll 
throttle you myself!” . 

He flexed his strong, heavy fingers slowly, and 
Judson recoiled as he realized the powerful strength 
of the man. “Well?” Judson pleaded, hoping for 
clemency. “Can you blame me, sir . . . when you 
consider what I know, and what I thought . . . ?” 

“I’m not interested in your thoughts,” Stratini 
stopped him with a gesture, “but I mean to find out 
what you have learned ... or imagine is so.” 

“Then ask Miss Carol to show you her workbag 
* . . if she hasn’t torn up what’s in it?” 

“Since you know, tell me yourself!” Stratini com¬ 
manded. 

For a moment, Judson hesitated, wondering whether 
the time had come to play his trump card, whether, in 
fact, his statement would prove news to Stratini. Then, 
in a confidential tone, he said, “She’s been in jail!” 




212 


THIS WOMAN 


“Miss Drayton?” Stratini stroked his mustache. 
. . . “Just how do you know that?” 

“Her certificate of discharge is in that bag . . . 
Mr. Bleeker knew it, and he knew that if you saw 
it, I’d be cleared of suspicion. . . 

“Why?” asked Stratini dryly. 

“Wouldn’t her record stand against her?” 

“Not necessarily,” Stratini shook his head. Then as 
the butler stared at him in amazement, he added, 
“You’ve seen this paper?” 

“Yes, sir,” Judson told him. “In fact I found 
it. . . .” And he went on to relate the certificate’s 
history. “So you see, sir,” he concluded triumphantly, 
“Mr. Bleeker’s mixed up with her somehow.” 

“Quite so,” chuckled Stratini. “We all are.” 

“Not you, sir?” Judson exclaimed with a feeling of 
terror. “You ain’t all crooks, are you?” 

“Upon advice of counsel, I decline to reply,” Stra¬ 
tini answered him laughingly. “Tra putting the ques¬ 
tions, Judson, if it’s all the same to you. But to get 
back to Miss Drayton . . . you say there’s another 
name on this form?” 

“Mary Drew,” Judson answered glibly, “but of 
course, it’s only an alias. . . .” 

“Are you certain of that, Judson?” Stratini 
watched him narrowly. 

“Why, reasonably, sir . . . since she owned that 
the discharge was hers.” 

“Of course,” nodded Stratini, “I’d forgotten that 
for the moment.” 

“So you see, sir,” the butler congratulated him¬ 
self at the progress he was making, “I could have 
cleared myself right away if Mr. Bleeker’d let me tell 
you this before. . . .” 

“I don’t see how,” Stratini declined to agree, “al¬ 
though you’ve done me a service in furnishing this 
bit of news.” His satisfaction seemed too genuine to 
be feigned. 




THIS WOMAN 


213 


“I’d have told you before, sir,” the butler pleaded 
virtuously. “Only . . 

“Only it didn’t suit your purpose to do so!” Stra- 
tini cut in. “You were waiting until you could safely 
cash-in on the information. In time, it might have 
proved valuable . . . when Miss Drayton is earning 
huge sums as an operatic star . . . eh?” 

The butler lowered his eyes and seemed at a loss for 
an answer. Stratini had him cornered, but he did 
not mean to reveal his hand just yet. He had too 
much to lose. 

“So far so good,” the impresario clapped his hands 
and began to pace up and down. “Now let’s see if 
we can’t get to the bottom of this. . . . What made 
you change your mind?” 

“What made me . . . ?” Judson faltered, sparring 
for time, seeking a noncommittal reply. 

“Perhaps I should say who” Stratini amended his 
question. “I’m going to find out you know . . . just 
how much you were promised for putting this neck¬ 
lace in Miss Drayton’s bag, and who it was that 
promised to pay it to you.” 

“Nobody promised to pay me anything!” the butler 
denied in confusion. “You can ask anybody. . . .” 

“I am asking you!” Stratini reminded him. “And 
I’m going to ask you several other things. . . . For 
instance . . . why you’ve so much interest in all that 
goes on about you . . . and how it is that Social 
Chat learns so many . . . rather personal things ?” 

Judson turned ashen. “How should I know?” he 
faltered. 

“It might be difficult to prove . . . and then again, 
it might not,” Stratini opined. “Yet the little matter 
of its latest scandal is an interesting case in point.” 

“You can’t blame me for that!” Judson sneered at 
him. 

“Except for the actual passing on of the story?” 
Stratini suggested. “I can imagine that you were 




214 


THIS WOMAN 


not informed as to just what happened . . . yet it is 
curious that this canard is followed by our finding 
Mrs. Delancey’s jewels in Miss Drayton’s workbag 
. . . very curious!” 

“So you’re on, are you?” Judson growled sullenly* 
“All right, then . . . will you let me go if I spill the 
whole business?” With eyes like those of a caged 
animal, he looked quickly from the casement to Stra- 
tini and then back again to the leaded panes, against 
which the faint shadow of a woman’s head was now 
clearly silhouetted. 

The impresario laughed aloud. “Willingly, you, 
bungler!” he scorned the cringing creature. “This 
woman has made a fool of you, with her bribes, and 
perhaps with promises that never will be ful¬ 
filled. . . 

And striding toward the casement, he threw open 
the glass doors as Judson stood open-mouthed in aston¬ 
ished disillusionment. Then his jaw snapped and a 
sickly smile came over his features. “Didn’t I tell 
you, sir?” he said with a note of triumph. . . . 

Carol stood on the balcony, and she dropped her 
eyes in confusion as Stratini stared at her. For a 
moment he stood aghast, and raised his hand to make 
sure that his monocle was in place. 

“Really, my dear,” he said, after a moment’s pause, 
“there are times when you make it difficult for one to 
have faith in you.” 

“I’m not asking you to have faith in me . . . any 
more,” she said resignedly, looking over his shoulder 
at the gaping Judson. “I suppose he has told you 
about me. . . 

“Judson?” Stratini arched his eyebrows and 
dropped his monocle. “Oh, yes ... he has told me 
a number of things . . . more than he meant to, in 
fact, . . . but where is Estelle?” 

The butler stiffened and Carol turned her head, 




THIS WOMAN 


215 


as though looking for someone who should be on the 
lawn. 

“She was here just a moment ago . . . when I 
came along,” Carol said simply. “She was wondering 
whether you’d give her the necklace, or whether she’d 
have to testify against the man.” 

A snarl broke from the butler and Stratini laughed 
aloud. “You hear?” he shrugged, as he turned to the 
man. “Are you satisfied ... or would you rather 
have Mrs. Delancey confirm that statement?” 

“I’d like to ring her damn swan’s neck!” Judson ex¬ 
claimed in a rage. 

“Suit yourself!” Stratini washed his hands of the 
other’s course. “Far be it from me to deter you . . . 
but the path is clear at the moment ... in case you 
care to be off . . . and hold your tongue!” 

“About you and Miss Drayton?” Judson bargained 
quickly, stepping through the window as though he 
feared the detective’s return. 

“I have very little concern with the affairs of any¬ 
one else,” Stratini said meaningly, “but I have a de¬ 
cided aversion to anyone’s meddling with my own 
affairs.” 

In astonishment, Carol watched Judson scurry 
across the lawn, dart through the hedge and dis¬ 
appear down the public road. 

“You’re letting him go?” she asked, incomprehen¬ 
sibly. 

“Si!” smiled Stratini. “Step in and I’ll tell you 
about it. . . . It’s time we had a frank chat.” 




X. 


Meticulously, Stratini closed and fastened the 
windows as Carol stepped into the library ahead of 
him. 

“We will have no more eavesdroppers,” he an¬ 
nounced with grim assurance, and came toward the 
long table where Carol seated herself, drumming the 
polished wood with her finger-tips. 

Indignant beneath the flush his remark brought to 
her already burning cheeks, she straightened in her 
chair. “Do you accuse me of trying to overhear?” 

“No,” he answered abruptly. “You would not . . . 
but if you had, Jk>u would not be so perturbed . . . 
even though little good of yourself would have come 
to your ears.” 

Then, as she watched him in uncomfortable silence, 
he moved methodically about the room, taking a 
candlestick from the mantle above the great fireplace 
and placing it beside the bronze writing set at her. 
elbow. Then he sought a hammered tray and put it 
within easy reach, lit a cigarette from the burning 
taper, and faced her quizzically. 

“Now,” he proceeded, “we shall have our little 
tete-a-tete ” 

She sighed, wearily. “I have borne enough this 
morning . . . but this is the end! I will not be called 
to account for my every action . . . grilled as it 
suits your whim . . . doubted, insulted . . . made 
the catspaw in a game I loathe, even though I fail 
to understand its object!” 

“Then it is high time you did understand!” he 
snapped impatiently. “Until you do . . . until you 
stop deceiving yourself . . . you cannot hope to suc¬ 
ceed in what you propose to do. . . .” 

216 


THIS WOMAN 


217 


“But I am not going on,” she told him with de¬ 
cision. “I am sorry ... if it hurts your vanity to 
have your experiment fail . . . but the statue de¬ 
clines to be molded.” 

<c What arrant nonsense!” he exploded. “You may 
not stop if you would!” 

“But I shall!” she defied him. 

“And I say you shall not!" he countered with rising 
inflection. “You have assumed obligations and you 
will prove faithful to them ... to the letter!” 

“What makes you think so?” she tossed her head 
with sarcastic rebelliousness. 

“The fact that you are a woman of principle,” he 
answered, unanswerably. “With you, a bargain is 
a bargain.” 

“Go on!” she cried out in deep emotion, “remind me 
again that you have given your time and your money 
. . . that I am not even my own mistress. . . .” 

“And that your only way out is to become some¬ 
one’s else. . . .” 

“Stop it!” she screamed as she sprang to her feet, 
resting both hands on the table and leaning toward 
him with an insane flame in her eyes. “Once before 
you offered me that alternative. . . .” 

“And you hurled a candlestick at my head!” he 
smiled suavely. “I recall the tendency . . . hence I 
put another where you could reach it easily.” 

“You love to torture your victims, don’t you?” she 
sneered at him contemptuously. 

“I do like to see them squirm,” he admitted, blow¬ 
ing a cloud of smoke against the fire of his cigarette. 
“It is a sign of their vulnerability.” 

Her breasts swelled and her sensitive nostrils quiv¬ 
ered, as her fingers twisted the cords of her bag into 
tangled knots. 

“You see,” he went on with maddening deliberate¬ 
ness, “our little Cinderella is caught by the heel . . . 




218 


THIS WOMAN 


and I find her charged with two rather serious 
crimes. ...” 

“By the butler you liberated!” she shot at him 
scornfully, and her heavy breathing grew faster. “Is 
everyone's word to be taken in condemnation of me?” 

“No,” he smiled irritatingly. “In fact, I am tak¬ 
ing no one’s word concerning you. I do not even ask 
you to defend yourself . . . but I will not permit you 
to deny your guilt. I merely say that you have dis¬ 
pleased me. Do not do it again!” 

“In what way have I transgressed this time?” she 
asked ironically. 

“First, by falling in love!” he frowned at her, “and 
then by deceiving me . . . two offenses I will not 
tolerate in any pupil!” 

“If I have fallen in love,” she told him bitterly, 
“I have fallen out again. As for deceiving you . . . 
suppose I have?” 

“Suppose you had notf” was his answer. “This 
muddle might have been avoided.” 

“Perhaps,” she agreed dejectedly, “but then you 
would not have given me the chance that meant so 
much . . . that meant everything until . . .” 

“You were foolish and spoiled it!” he nodded re¬ 
provingly. “Now listen to me . . . control yourself 
if you can, and consider matters calmly. I have 
always trusted you . . . yet not once have you 
trusted me. I have sounded the very depths of your 
soul . . . and I liked what I found there. I said to 
myself, here is a woman ... of character, of talent, 
of great potentiality. She will make any sacrifice, 
endure any heartbreak, strive unceasingly and imper¬ 
sonally, for the great reward I offer her . . . and it 
seems that I was wrong.” 

Carol hung her head. “I’m afraid I’m not strong 
enough for the battle,” she sighed, despondent. 

“That is because you will not let me be your 
strength!” he accused, “because you conjure up ob- 





THIS WOMAN 


219 


stacles which I would willingly sweep from your path 
like so many cobwebs! Because you permit to grow 
great, in your silly, sentimental heart, fears at which 
I would laugh. Do you think because you have not 
told me, that I do not understand? In God’s name, 
what sort of pariah are you that you seek to excom¬ 
municate yourself from our holy midst!” 

She could not help but smile at his serious skepti¬ 
cism, and she became newly conscious of the kindness 
within the man. “Oh, you’re right!” she agreed with 
him fully, “I’ve been absurdly foolish. . . 

“But you’re not any more, since you realize the 
fact!” he told her in triumph. 

“I don’t deserve your lenience!” she said regret¬ 
fully, “but I’m not going to impose upon you any 
longer. I’m going to tell you everything . . . then 
you’ll know why I can’t go on.” 

“In that event, don’t tell me!” he held up his hands 
in mock horror. “I might be terribly shocked . . . 
but you wouldn’t be half so intriguing. To know a 
woman’s secret is to destroy her greatest charm!” 

“Your philosophy isn’t fair to the others,” she in¬ 
sisted, and thrusting her hand into her bag, she drew 
out the crumpled paper. “Read that.” She passed it 
to him. 

“To what end?” he inquired without glancing at it. 

“Then Judson told you . . . you knew before, per¬ 
haps?” 

“I surmised something worse. ... I am disap¬ 
pointed again!” 

“Worse?” she stared at him incredulously. “What 
could be worse? Do you know why I was arrested?” 

“No. For stealing a little happiness?” he ven¬ 
tured. “It seldom pays, this timid filching ... it 
is always better to take what we wish . . . openly 
. . . to be frank and honest, open and aboveboard 
. . . even in wrongdoing.” 

“But I didn’t even dream of doing what they 




220 


THIS WOMAN 


claimed I’d done!” she appealed to him. “Stratti, 
you believe that, don’t you!” 

“How can I?” he shrugged, and she shrank back 
under his gaze. Then he smiled and said very gently, 
“You are unfair to yourself. You ask me to believe you 
innocent, yet you impose upon yourself the penalty 
of guilt. That is where you are culpable. The world 
has a great deal to give you . . . and you can give 
much to it . . . but neither you nor the world can 
be made any happier if you permit the ghosts of the 
past to bar your path to the future.” 

“That’s a comfortable creed,” she said with a sad 
little smile, “but suppose I should show that certifi¬ 
cate ... to Aline . . . ?” 

“She’d expire with envy!” he chuckled. “Now let 
us be cheerful, my dear. I want you to come with 
me to a beautiful funeral.” 

As she saw what he meant to do, she put out her 
hand to stop him, but he only waved her away im¬ 
periously, with a solemn frown and a faint shake of 
his head. Then, as her breath came faster, he held 
the slip of paper into the candle flame. It curled in 
his fingers and crackled, grew brown and brittle, and 
crumbled, but he still held fast to one corner. Her 
heart was pounding against her breast as he gave a 
flick of his thumb and the last of the ashy residue fell 
on the beaten brass tray. 

“ Voila!” he smiled at her. “This Mary Drew is 
dead . I, Stratini, have cremated her . . . and see, 
we blow peace to her ashes. . . . Pouf . . . Pouf! 
She is quite out of the world . . . she never existed 
in fact. Let us forget her.” 

“Oh, Stratti!” she cried, deeply moved. “If I 
only could forget her!” 

“How can you remember someone who never w T as?” 
he gesticulated. “You are Carol Drayton, the friend 
of Baptiste Stratini! Who in ten thousand devils can 
say you are anyone else? What an absurd question. 




THIS WOMAN 


221 


We do not even deny foolish rumors ... we dismiss 
them. . . . Bah!” 

“But is such a pretense fair to Mrs. R.-S. . . , t 
when she has taken me into her home, given me the 
protection of her position . . . only to be made the 
subjects of such slurs. . . .” 

“As are cast by an inconsistent idiot!” Stratini 
exclaimed, pounding his fist on the table. “He tells 
us ever so sweetly, to return good for evil . . . and 
then proceeds to think evil of a girl who wants to 
be good!” 

“He would be even more bitter if he knew what 
you just burned!” she shuddered. 

“But it is burned!” Stratini reminded her. “Neither 
Mrs. R.-S. nor Aline knew this Mary Drew. She is 
nothing whatever to them. You are Carol Drayton . 
They love you, believe in you . . . hope for your 
success, with sincere devotion. Are you going to dis¬ 
appoint them? Hardly.” 

“I wish I might feel as you wish me to,” she vainly 
groped for a way. 

“Then you do feel as I do!” he cried with enthusi¬ 
asm. “You have only to remember that you are your 
true self . . . that you have done nothing of which 
to be ashamed . . . and that no one can possibly make 
us care any less for you. The state of our affection 
depends upon you alone.” 

Slowly sinking into a chair, she buried her face in 
her hands, and for several moments the tick of the 
grandfather’s clock was the only sound in the room. 
Stratini’s face was a study as he stood by the mantel 
watching her with a tenderness which seldom showed 
in his expression. Then with a look of ecstasy on her 
features, she stood up and crossed to him with both 
arms outstretched, trustingly confident. 

“Oh, Stratti!” she said intensely, as he took her. 
hands in his, “I feel like a clean slate . . . with all 
the bad marks wiped off!” 




222 


THIS WOMAN 


“I am glad,” he beamed. “Now suppose we begin 
to write something worth while there.” 

She nodded eagerly. “I think you’ll find me an al¬ 
most perfect pupil!” she promised, her gratitude trans¬ 
forming her and making her wholesomely lovely. 

“I wonder!” he speculated, with banter in his eyes. 
“Just to make sure, we’ll try the hardest lesson first.” 

“Oh, let’s!” she agreed eagerly, like an impatient 
child, eager to earn a respected instructor’s approval. 

“It is the little matter of self-discipline,” he an¬ 
nounced, “the difficult art of stifling sentiment. . . .” 

“But I’ve told you I’ve fallen out of love!” she in¬ 
terrupted; yet she could not meet the scoffing look in 
his eyes. She knew that he knew it was not true. 

“If you had, there would be nothing hard in the 
task I’m setting you,” he urged her toward the table. 
“I want you to write a letter to Whitney Duane. . . .” 

“You mean I am not to see him again . . . that I 
am to let him think . . .” she began to beseech him, 
but he only smiled at her sadly. 

“Did we not agree that it makes no difference what 
anyone may think?” he asked relentlessly. “You and 
I are going on together until we reach our goal. In 
the meantime, you will have no other love than your 
work ... no other thoughts than your singing. 
Whatever it costs, you will pay the price of the free¬ 
dom which comes with peace of mind. When you have 
sung on my stage for one season . . . then you may 
make yourself as unhappy as you like in any way that 
pleases you!” 

“But I can hardly be happy now, and have any 
peace of mind, if I know that I am hurting someone 
who cares for me,” she explained to him simply. 

“You were going to do it anyhow,” he scored with 
deliberate intent, “unless I understand you less than 
I think I do. You refused him, didn’t you?” 

She nodded. “I told him I couldn't marry him 




THIS WOMAN 


223 


• . . yet you have just said that my reasons were 
absurd!” she challenged. 

“Granted!” Stratini nodded his head with a gri¬ 
mace. “Now give him an excuse that’s sensible. Tell 
him that you won’t marry him . . . because you 
won’t!” 

“Perhaps it would be best,” she meditated aloud. 

“Unquestionably . . . for both of you,” he said 
with conviction. “And when you say you won’t I 
want you to mean it ... to wipe that slate as clean 
as the other one.” He paused and pointed to the 
paper rack, with its rich, simple stationery, and 
screwing in his monocle, peered about for a pen. 
“You will write the letter?” 

“I will try,” she answered, and then buried her face 
in her arms, folded over the blotting pad. 

“I shall see that you are not disturbed,” Stratini 
told her feelingly. Then, with his hand on the knob, 
he paused to look back at her pityingly, yet with a 
subtle satisfaction, not unmixed with sympathy for 
the man he was causing to suffer quite as much as the 
girl. 

Carol heard the door close softly, and mechanically 
her hand stretched out to open the inkwell. With 
paper before her, she stared at the sheet, almost too 
stunned to write, unable to bring herself to give this 
wrench to her heart. An hour ago, she had not con¬ 
sidered herself worth the sacrifice Whitney would be 
obliged to make if she should accept him . . . now, 
she wondered whether anything in the world was worth 
the sacrifice she was about to make. 

Certainly, ambition would not find the words she 
sought. Certainly no earthly reward could ever re¬ 
place or compensate for the love she must renounce 
. . . yet she found painful consolation in the knowl¬ 
edge that she was doing it for Whitney’s sake. Her 
phrasing must be cautious . . . not too cruel, yet 
firm . . . convincing. She must make him put her 





224 


THIS WOMAN 


permanently out of his life . . . make him a little 
glad that she was going . . . and no hint of regret 
must be found between the lines ... no trace of a 
tear must be evident on the page. Stratini was right. 
. . . It was the hardest lesson . . . but she must 
master it. 

Resonant chimes startled her and reluctantly she 
began to compose. At first her efforts were fruitless 
. . . she had even begun, My own darling! Then 
resolution conquered, and the fevered scratching of her 
pen drowned out the monotonous, mocking ticking of 
the great clock in the corner, measuring out its gradu¬ 
ally healing potion of time. 




BOOK THREE 


I. 

Aline and Carol were swinging along the path by 
the wall of Riverside Drive, eagerly drinking in the 
tonic-like ozone. It was late October in New York 
. . . Gotham’s most glorious season! Ever-hurrying 
throngs moved with renewed alertness, and glowing 
faces sparkled with the sheer joy of living. The tang 
in the air made the touch of furs seem pleasant, 
and the bus-tops reflected fall fashions, fresh from 
Fifth Avenue. 

The sweeping stretches of winding way presented 
gorgeous vistas of golden-brown, with here and there 
a lingering touch of green ... as though summer 
were loath to leave when all the world was so happy. 
Sunbeams danced on the countless window panes of 
tall apartment facades, and glinted in the choppy 
churn of the craft which skimmed the Hudson. An 
impertinent wind snapped out the ensign of a battle¬ 
ship at anchor, and blew the notes of a bugle clearly 
toward the shore. At its sound, a horse on the 
bridle path pricked up its ears, and its rider laughed 
as the morning’s invigoration spurred the prancing 
stallion into a canter. 

It was now past noon, and, having walked to the 
Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Monument, the girls’ cheeks 
were cool and fresh from their exercise. The distance 
from Park Avenue had seemed but a trifling stretch, 
and neither of them was tired, yet Carol’s wrist watch 
warned them of the need to ride. So Aline waved 
her vanity ease at a passing taxicab, and the two ran 
across the asphalt to enter it. 

A policeman smiled after their nimble heels and ap- 
225 


226 


THIS WOMAN 


proved the silken flash which emerged from beneath 
a pair of chic skirts to disappear into the cab. Then 
the machine shot northward, over the Ninety-sixth 
Street bridge and on toward Grant’s Tomb. Peeping 
into her mirror, Aline painted the lily while Carol 
pensively played with the orchids pinned to hen 
corsage ... a mute message of worship from Whitt 
ney Duane that she could not refrain from wearing 
as he had begged her to do. Yet she knew that Bap¬ 
tiste Stratini would be angry if he knew. 

But there were few scant moments for her to in¬ 
dulge in introspection as the busy taximeter ticked its 
speedy tune, and it seemed little more than an in¬ 
stant before the car took the curve which led into 
Claremont. On the topmost step of the glass-en¬ 
closed porch, Stratini was waiting for them, and now 
he hurried down to slip a bill to the chauffeur. 

With a gallantry suggestive of courtlier climes, he 
handed the girls to the sidewalk, and his eyes were 
glittering pridefully as he followed them into the 
roadhouse where a Bonaparte once resided. An 
obsequious captain was waiting to guide them to a 
table around on the side where the view takes in the 
upper width of the swift-running river; and Stratini 
himself tucked Carol comfortably in her chair. He 
had already ordered luncheon, and, while the waiter 
was absent, he smilingly produced an orange-hued 
aid to their ravenous appetites. 

Then as he blew little smoke rings at an antlered 
head on the wall, he related the latest tid-bits of 
operatic intrigue . . . how this and that petulant 
singer was curious as to his plans, and how he was 
teasing them all with his prophecies about Carol. 

“And before many months, my dear,” he smiled at 
Aline, “our Songbird will try out her wings . . . un¬ 
less she should grow too impatient and force me to 
clip them!” 

“No fear of that!” laughed Carol, “I’ve grown to 




THIS WOMAN 


227 


like my cage, and the perch where I sit and chirp at 
the snap of your fingers. I’ll hardly know how to 
behave when you open the door . . . and maybe you’ll 
find that I haven’t yet learned to fly.” 

“It will be my place to determine that,” he re¬ 
minded her with a smile, “but do not sip your soup 
so daintily ... a prima donna should attack fooc^ 
like a fishwife!” Which reminded him of an incident 
which made them shake with merriment, and caused 
the waiter to hide his face as he grinned over Stra- 
tini’s inimitable mimicry. 

So with one yarn and another, Stratini kept them 
laughing, and all too soon the demi-tasse grew cold. 
Yet despite her delighted interest in all that Stratini 
was saying, Carol was not unconscious of the atten¬ 
tion paid her by the motorists who were lunching at 
nearby tables. In a sense, she had become a Man¬ 
hattan celebrity, and of course Stratini was recog-* 
nized by practically all of their neighbors. Even 
Aline came in for her share of covert admiration, 
and a number of youths flushed guiltily as the de¬ 
butante noticed the girls they were entertaining . . * 
girls almost as striking as Carol and Aline . . . stun¬ 
ningly dressed, but strikingly hard in their artificial 
beauty. One who sat at a table nearby had the face 
of a madonna, but her conversation condemned her 
and the gold-laced officer with her would have been, 
court-martialed for telling such tales in the mess 
aboard his man-o’-war. 

The brazenness of this butterfly rather amused 
Stratini; but a chance remark, overheard now and 
then, made even Aline shudder, for Judy O’Gradys 
and Colonels* Ladies are not alike under their skins, 
even though they sometimes change their views and 
positions, and now and then a colonel has cause to 
complain. To Carol, the girl’s dainty loveliness was 
strikingly inconsistent with the cold calculation ap¬ 
parent in her eyes, and Carol tried to view herself 




228 


THIS WOMAN 


seated at such a table, if it had not been for the course 
which chance had opened to her. She could hardly 
conceive of herself cloaked in commerced finery, yet 
deep in her heart she understood the despair which 
leads to disgrace, although she could not comprehend 
the seeming indifference with which this scornful siren 
scoffed at convention. 

It sickened her, turned her thoughts from pleasant 
things and rewards that were near at hand, and 
plunged her into the depths of despondent melan¬ 
choly. Not even the thin veneer of outward virtue 
curtained this other girl’s avarice, yet she was armor- 
proof against the shafts of public criticism. This was 
the image the Rector had had in mind when he spoke 
of Carol, and she wondered whether Whitney knew 
how different she was at heart . . . how far removed 
she was from this type in fact. She had made her 
letter to him a coldly selfish epistle, in the hope that 
he would share the disgust she felt for herself. If he 
believed her honest in what she expressed, his heart 
could hardly harbor her image longer, yet she had 
spared herself the biting ignomy of trying to paint 
her own picture with scarlet strokes. 

She was glad of that now. It offered a little balm 
to the hurt which had not healed, and made easier 
to bear, her separation from him. At the moment, 
she was thinking of his sudden departure from Clif- 
cleft—within an hour after receiving her missive. He 
had not even attempted to see her, wishing to spare 
the woman he loved the sight of his pain. She still 
had the little note he had left, and knew that she 
always would have; and even now she often slept with 
it under her pillow. He had accepted his conge with 
sportsmanlike courage, neither complaining nor dar¬ 
ing to hope, and wishing her every success in her 
chosen vocation. 

As she had watched from her window, Whitney 
climbed into the motor, bade farewell to Aline, and 




THIS WOMAN 


229 


was whisked away down the drive. Peering through 
the screen, it seemed as though she looked out from 
a cell . . . not the sordid one of which she had 
dreaded to tell him . . . but through the bars of a 
brighter cage, at the door of which Stratini stood 
... a kindly, determined jailer. Like a cut-back on 
the silver sheet, she seemed to see again, the dust of a 
departing car, and deep in her thoughts, she hardly 
heard what Stratini was saying. 

But it was Aline who was talking now, voicing her 
scorn of married men who lunched with other ladies. 
Carol inferred that she knew the man in blue and 
gold who was smiling at the girl whose delicate hard¬ 
ness had moved her so deeply. 

“Take my own Dad, for instance,” Aline said to, 
Stratini, “a more lovable, inconstant vagabond never 
philandered. . . . Perhaps he might have been dif¬ 
ferent if he hadn’t had too much money to stand hav¬ 
ing too little to do . . . you know what the devil’s 
supposed to provide for those who are idle and itch¬ 
ing. . . . Mother just heaved a sigh of relief when 
his heart burst from the strain . . . and all the cute 
little chorus girls wept and went into mourning.” 

“Yet you admit,” Stratini observed, “that your 
father was lovable. That at least, is something to re¬ 
member of a parent.” 

“Yes, it is!” Aline agreed, “and I was just crazy 
about him! But if I ever have any kids, I don’t want 
them to think of their father in the way I think of 
mine . . . especially if they’re girls, Stratti. I’ve met 
men like Dad, myself . . . since I’ve grown up more 
or less . . . and I’ll say that they’re rather rotten!” 

Her earnestness impressed the remark on Carol’s 
consciousness, and she thought of the way his children 
would be sure to think of Whitney . . . wondering 
in the same flash, what they would think of her . . . 
and whether, indeed, she had any right ever to become 
a mother. 




230 


THIS WOMAN 


Since her return to New York t Carol had resumed 
her routine with almost religious fervor, trying with 
fixedness of purpose to forget herself in her work. 
And partly, she had succeeded . . . succeeded to the 
extent where her singing showed great improvement. 
Of course the thing that she did not know was ob¬ 
vious to Stratini. The very repression she exercised, 
and the gnawing hunger within her, had lent a subtle 
something to her mellifluous tones ... a quality of 
deep feeling which would otherwise have been lacking 
... a quality that her maestro meant to develop still 
further. 

But while Whitney had absented himself from the 
Rhinebeck-Sturdevant home, he had not taken him¬ 
self completely out of her life. Frequently, she found 
a note penned from his rooms or his clubs; friendly* 
encouraging messages, signed “your incorporator 55 
... as pleasantly impersonal as they were delightful. 
Then, too, there were boxes from Thorleys and bon¬ 
bons from Maillard’s and Louis Sherry’s . . . just 
with a scribbled card, hoping she’d wear or enjoy 
them. And she did, despite the depression they caused 
her. 

Not once, however, did she relax her determination 
to fulfill her promise to Stratini. She had burned her 
bridges behind her and had not the slightest intent 
tion of building them up again. In time, she hoped 
she might forget in fact as well as in pretense, but 
even as she drew nearer her goal, the likelihood of 
stifling her love grew less and less. Outwardly, how¬ 
ever, her secret would not have been guessed, and there 
were those who met her who thought her decidedly cold 
. . . cold as an iceberg, someone said, and deeper 
beneath the surface. 

That Whitney failed to drop in now and then was 
never commented upon by Mrs. R.-S. or Aline. Tacitly, 
they accepted his unaccustomed absence, and Carol 
was certain they sensed the situation, even if Stratini 




THIS WOMAN 


231 


had not explained it to them. Even Gramercy Bleeker, 
who whimsically proclaimed himself her elder brother, 
never so much as mentioned Duane in her presence 
. . . and Bleeker was hanging about Aline in as much 
of her time as she’d give him. 

“Now what shall we do this afternoon?” Stratini 
turned to Carol, and she suddenly tried to concentrate 
on the problem. Absently, her fingers toyed with the 
blooms at her waist, and the impresario covertly 
watched the play of her slender fingers. “Since this 
is a singing holiday, let us steer clear of music and 
think of something diverting.” 

Aline at once advanced a dozen suggestions, all of 
which led to a place where they might dance at tea 
time, but Stratini vetoed her every plan and waited for 
Carol’s selection. These little week-end excursions had 
become a pleasant habit, and when she could spare the 
time, Mrs. R.-S. went with them, but to-day she had 
been detained by the Drama League or the Hallowe’en 
Fete, or women’s suffrage or something. 

“If I did not know better,” Stratini smiled, as he 
waited for Carol’s decision, “I should suspect that my 
Songbird has fallen in love again!” 

Carol avoided his glance, but laughingly denied any 
such violation of her promise to behave herself and 
abide by the stringent rules of her own incorporation. 
Then, before she realized what Stratini was doing, he 
reached beneath the table cloth and caught at the 
ribbon bow about her bouquet. 

“Now let us see if he’s faithful!” he cried with pre¬ 
tended glee, and his heavily ringed fingers began to 
pick at the petals. “He loves me, he loves me not!” 
he tore off the beautiful blooms, “he loves me, he loves 
me . . . not . . . isn’t it so?” 

And carelessly dropping the flowers in front of 
Aline, he fixed his gaze upon Carol with gently chiding 
reproof, his disappointment so evident that she dared 
not resent his rudeness. 




232 


THIS WOMAN 


“I suppose you’re right!” she said with an effort at 
lightness, “yet isn’t a diva permitted to wear her 
admirers’ tributes?” 

“A diva, yes ... a tyro, no!” Stratini ruled. “You 
will have to wait until you’re beyond the three year 
limit, my child. Then if you like, you may sail your 
own bark on the uncharted seas of romance. Come, let 
us decide . . . what shall we do to-day?” 

“Let’s go down to the Battery and take a peep at 
the fish!” Aline put in as she tilted the tip of her nose, 
“or perhaps you two have never been to the Spanish 
Museum. Then, of course, there’s the peanut man, 
just outside the Zoo . . . for a nickel he’ll sell us 
enough to feed all the nuts in the park!” 

“Your inference is impudent!” Stratini assumed a 
stern air. “If you don’t behave yourself properly 
we’ll go see a moving picture.” 

“Oh, save me, kind sir!” Aline cried out with melo¬ 
dramatic intensity, just at a moment when the other 
diners were silent, and grins and amused titters greeted 
her clearly heard outburst. Carol flushed with amuse¬ 
ment, as chairs were pushed back and necks were craned 
to catch a glimpse of the maiden so loudly calling for 
help; and Stratini burst into a bellow of mirth that 
made the windowpanes rattle. An elderly lady leveled 
her lorgnon at him and remarked that it was disgrace¬ 
ful to see a man of his age cutting up with two children 
who ought to be soundly spanked! 

Then before their hilarity had fully subsided, the 
clank of spurs and the tread of boots came around the 
side of the building. Carol looked up as two horse¬ 
men approached, and her face turned crimson, for she 
found herself staring directly at Whitney Duane. Cap 
and crop tucked under his arm, he was lighting a ciga¬ 
rette, but he paused and the match flared out in his 
fingers. Beside him was Schuyler Tremaine, and nat¬ 
urally, they paused for a word of greeting. 

Stratini explained the incident which had prompted 




THIS WOMAN 


233 


their mirth, and Tremaine incensed the old lady by 
smiling in spite of himself, when she caught him looking 
at her. But Carol was only conscious of the ruined 
bunch of orchids, and was all too well aware of the 
hurt which came into Whitney’s eyes, although he tried 
to conceal it and spoke to her casually. 

“We’ve been riding all morning,” he said, “and only 
stopped for a bite of belated luncheon . . . but it’s fine 
to see you again. ... I hear you’re progressing 
famously.” 

“So Stratti says,” she faltered, and she thought that 
Whitney frowned . . . the knowledge of which was 
certain in the impresario’s mind. So telling the waiter 
to call his car, he pushed back his chair and arose; and 
Carol, with a chastened air, followed his example. 

But she would not go without trying, at least, to 
make Whitney understand, that she had worn his 
orchids because he wished that she would. “Aline,” 
she said, as she picked up her gloves and adjusted her 
fur, “Stratti’s almost ruined my flowers with his great 
paws, but I wish you’d reach them for me, if you 
will. . . 

“Let me!” Whitney stooped as they fell to the floor, 
and the glance he gave Carol was grateful. She felt 
that he realized it was not her fault that the cloth was 
littered with petals, and sweeping a pile of them into 
her palm she pressed them against her cheek. 

“Flowers, my dear,” Stratini observed, in a meaning, 
cynical tone, “are like the loves of my singers . . . 
intoxicating to-night, in all of their passionate fra¬ 
grance . . . but dead and forgotten by morning . . . 
and left for the maid to throw out!” 

Whitney’s expression changed, and his grip on his 
crop tightened, but he managed to master a smile as 
he shrugged his shoulders. Then instead of handing 
the torn blooms to Carol, he tossed them upon the table 
with a gesture of unimportance. Carol could have 
cried out as she penetrated the mask he chose to 




234 


THIS WOMAN 


assume, but she was also conscious of her maestro’s 
deep displeasure. And perhaps Duane sensed some¬ 
thing he had not dared to hope for, and came to 
Carol’s rescue in the most casual way. 

“May I ’phone you some day?” he asked with con¬ 
ventional courtesy, which somehow did not quite ring 
true, “perhaps we might ride together ... if you’re 
not kept too busy.” 

She wanted to tell him to call her up the first thing 
the following morning, yet she realized that even the 
slightest sign from her might undo all she had done, 
and she slowly shook her head. 

“You forget that I’m married . . . married to my 
art,” she replied with a laugh, as forced as it sounded 
flat, “and art, you know, is a terribly jealous hus¬ 
band. . . .” 

“Art’s usually termed a mistress!” Stratini cut in 
with a chuckle, “but this afternoon, my dear Songbird, 
your maestro claims your time.” 




H. 


On the Sabbath morning the cheery chimes of St. 
Timothy’s Church rang out on the crisp sparkling air 
with benign invitation; yet their silvery tones sounded 
a knell in the heart of Doctor Duane. Their clear call 
did not summon Mrs. Rhinebeck-Sturdevant to her 
accustomed pew, and their echo did not find her motor 
parked by the curb before the imposing edifice in upper 
Fifth Avenue. 

Whatever his personal feelings at finding himself 
banished from the matron’s good graces, the Rector 
flatly refused an apology for his flaying. In fact, he 
had girded his loins and entered the fight in earnest, 
yet the war he waged was one of words at which social 
circles smiled. Cleverly capitalizing the absence of 
certain eminent members of his congregation, the cler¬ 
gyman made his church the mecca of newspaper men. 
They besieged the door of his study and crowded close 
to his chancel, ears attuned to note his every sensational 
sentence. In fairness to the divine it must be said that 
reporters only took down the more violent phrases of 
his preachments, and their pages gave prominence to 
his most scathing statements, ignoring his softer pas¬ 
sages and the weekly, public travail, of his poor, 
shocked soul. Yet, of course, the experienced Rector 
knew they would do just that. So he fished in his ink¬ 
well for sentences more striking in their construction 
than was warranted by conditions or truly Christian 
compassion. 

The rest of New York chuckled and flocked to his 
fold, forsaking more mild mannered pastors and secu¬ 
lar Sunday diversions. On Mondays, devout Jews, who 
thronged his sidewalk while sunning themselves at noon, 
spoke with contempt of a Rav whose teachings only 
235 


236 


THIS WOMAN 


resulted in the wickedness and waywardness of those 
who walked in high places. So, in the depths of his 
despair, Doctor Duane found himself the sensation of 
the hour, the horror of his Bishop, and the laughing 
stock of those he sought to reprove. 

“Sex, sin and the stench of society’s shame . . . sen¬ 
sual dances, shocking divorces, and the naked, smirking 
harlots of a decadent stage” ... all horrified the 
preacher and helped him attain the limelight. Specific 
indictment was lacking, for the Rector had learned the 
danger of treading on tender toes while flailing about 
the footstools of the mighty. Besides, if he mentioned 
names, the papers would not print what he said, for the 
syndicates frowned upon stories which might mean libel 
suits. So the clergyman conjured up visions of vice 
which would have been suppressed if shown before the 
footlights or published in fiction form. And because 
the public was eager for salacious mis-information, 
Doctor Duane’s sermons were devoured and later dis¬ 
cussed with a frankness that would have been taboo 
but for the fact that the Rector might be quoted. 

Sitting in the Rhinebeck-Sturdevant library after a 
rather late breakfast, Carol was looking through the 
sheafs of newsprint and rotagravure, from which the 
minister gathered many a valuable text. But the 
musical notes held scant interest and the social chat 
none at all, so Carol was almost despairing of ridding 
herself of her thoughts when Judson’s successor entered 
with a long, beribboned box. 

With an effort to seem unconcerned, Carol signed to 
the man to place it on the table, where she feigned to 
ignore it; but of course she knew that the flowers were 
from Whitney. That would mean that he was not 
angry, that the incident of the orchids must have been 
understood, and Carol blamed herself for the note of 
joy in her heart. To yield to herself like this would be 
a violation of her promise, yet she could not help but 
wonder what Whitney was doing just then, riding or 




THIS WOMAN 


237 


golfing, or maybe at church, if he was not at his club, 
thinking of her and damning his reverend relative. 
Perhaps a note in the box would give her a hint, yet 
because she feared the reaction that would be certain 
to follow, she would not permit herself to untie the 
bow and see. 

Then a tall figure in a well-cut morning coat came 
through the door, and Bleeker grinned at her. “Hello!” 
he said, and dropped himself loosely into a chair. “Just 
saw Mrs. R.-S. on her way to St. John’s, and she almost 
tempted me to run up and hear the Bishop. Great old 
boy, Rhinebeck . . . and I understand he’s stepped on 
Duane for denouncing 4 The Unscorned Woman* . . . 
says the show’d have closed on its first night if the 
dominie hadn’t boosted it with his claim that it’s plain 
licentious.” 

“Is it?” Carol asked. “You’ve seen it of course?” 

“Naturally, but as a guide to the theater, I’m 
through with the Rector forever!” Bleeker announced 
in disgust. “How such drivel ever got by an intelli¬ 
gent producer’s beyond me. Even the cast can’t save 
it, but no doubt it’ll run all season, thanks to the 
saintly Duane. He ought to have a commission on the 
author’s royalty checks!” 

“But is there any excuse for such things . . . for 
such plays, I mean?” Carol wondered aloud, “when 
there’s so much that’s good and beautiful, and equally 
dramatic, for the play right to select . . . ?” 

Bleeker grinned. “The Rector seems to have taken 
a leaf from the writing-men’s book. . . . Instead of 
sticking to his last and urging us to wear shoes that 
are good, the old fox proceeds to pan us for walking 
in slippers of sin on the banks of the primrose path 
. . . and he finds that such stuff packs the church. If 
the crowd will go to St. Timothy’s to learn how rotten 
things are, one can’t be surprised if a putrid play 
draws a mob to the theater. Anyway, both the box 




238 


THIS WOMAN 


office and the contribution box seem to prove that it 
pays.” 

“But, Gram,” Carol said with a little shudder, “it’s 
horrible to think of making the Church commercial!” 

“It’s rather rotten to think of any influence for good 
being brought about by the root of all evil, yet the 
theatrical managers are no more subservient to popu¬ 
lar taste than the Rector is. If the playright holds a 
clergyman up to scorn, the goody-goodies gasp and 
hold up their hands in holy horror; but Duane delib¬ 
erately fills his pews by stealing the theater’s lure. 
Those who go to hear him, listen for lewdness and not 
for religion, and because he knows it, he makes it a 
point to feed sensation to them.” 

“Surely though,” Carol objected, “we need someone 
to warn us of what we should not do?” 

“Why?” asked Bleeker. “I’m not very religious, as 
perhaps you’ve noticed, but I’ve heard it said by some 
folks I admire, that evil doesn’t exist. If that’s so, 
what the devil’s the sense of eternally calling our atten¬ 
tion to it, or at least, to the fancied follies we’d be 
better off to forget?” 

“Still,” she reminded him, “you must give him credit 
for being in earnest.” 

“That’s the hell oi it!” Bleeker exclaimed. “His 
seriousness of purpose makes it all the more terrible. 
The theatrical manager frankly panders to the public 
purse and usually doesn’t pretend to be altruistic; but 
Duane does . . . and his methods are a constant thorn 
in the flesh of the Bishop.” 

“He’s coming to dinner this evening. . . .” 

“Rhinebeck?” Bleeker smiled. “In that event, I 
think I’ll stick around. It’s a treat to be with that 
man ... a sort of mental cocktail . . . and he 
knows just how to mix the spiritual stimulant I need 
. . . never try one in fact, that I’m not keen for 
another.” 




THIS WOMAN 


239 


“I’ve never met him,” Carol said pensively, “and I’m 
rather curious as to what he’ll think of me. . . 

“That’s a funny thing about Bishop Rhinebeck,” 
Bleeker told her, “it doesn’t seem to matter what he 
thinks about us . . . it’s what he somehow makes us 
think of ourselves. I believe if the Bishop petted it for 
a moment or two, an outcast alley-cat would try to win 
the blue ribbon at a blooded pussy-show.” 

“Then there may be a chance for me!” Carol man¬ 
aged to laugh, but her expression was all too serious 
not to be noted by Bleeker. 

“By the way,” he said, “I hope you never bother 
your head about that certificate thing. . . .” 

“I’ve wondered why you never mentioned it,” she said 
with a sudden start, as she faced him tensely, “and I’ve 
never had the chance to thank you for all you’ve done 
for me. . . .” 

“Tush and piffle!” he mocked her seriousness. “I 
don’t know what it was all about, and it makes no never¬ 
minds, but I hope you didn’t suppose I meant to let our 
friend Estelle really put anything over?” 

“Estelle?” Carol looked at him sharply. “Oh, I 
know what Stratti thinks about the jewels, and he’s 
hinted that she sent some items to Social Chat , but 
Estelle had nothing to do with the paper you helped 
me to hide. . . 

“It wasn’t her fault if she didn’t,” Bleeker assured 
her, “and if the lovely lady doesn’t watch her step she’s 
going to come a cropper long before she’s forty . . . 
the footprints of time are plain on the sands, or what¬ 
ever the saying is. . . . Estelle’s getting older without 
growing any wiser . . . and that’s rather bad business 
usually.” 

“I’d be sorry to see her thoughtlessness bring her, 
trouble,” Carol said sincerely. “And because of cer¬ 
tain things I know, I can understand and forgive what 
she tried to do to me. You can’t imagine, Gramercy, 




240 


THIS WOMAN 


what a certain type of suffering . . . what the fear of* 
one sort of exposure . . . can make a woman do.” 

“No?” smiled Bleeker. “Well, anyway, ’Stelle’s all 
wrong. She and the Rector are working for different 
ends it’s true, but their systems are too much alike. 
If you’ve noticed, neither she nor Duane have been here 
since that business at Clifcleft.” 

Carol nodded. “And I can’t help feeling that I’m 
to blame, although Stratti says I mustn’t. ... I 
showed him that certificate, you know.” 

“I didn’t, but I’m glad you were sensible enough to 
do it,” Bleeker approved. “Your secret will be safer 
with him than if you’d kept it yourself ... by that 
I mean, he’ll make sure you don’t trouble yourself 
about it. You know as well as I do, that things like 
that seem worse when we shut ’em up inside ourselves 
and brood about ’em alone.” 

“Gramercy,” she began gratefully, “you’ve been 
perfectly splendid ... !” 

“Oh, no,” he laughed, “I’ve merely proved to you 
that I’m quite a conscienceless creature, which, no 
doubt, is the reason I haven’t a care in the world. 
Don’t believe in cares . . . won’t have anything to do 
with ’em . . . and when they will crop up, why I go 
out and drown ’em.” 

“But that’s against the law!” she twitted him, and 
he grinned at her sheepishly. 

“Sure it is,” he admitted, defending himself. “Worry 
ought to be, but it’s about the only thing left that we 
cam, do . . . legally. If you don’t believe me, ask 
Whitney, he’s learned in legal lore. . . .” But he 
broke off quickly, embarrassed at the slip he had made. 
“Forgive me,” he apologized, “I didn’t mean to men¬ 
tion him, and I’m sorry.” 

“I’m not,” Carol told him, “and I’m sorry I’ve had 
to treat Whitney so, but really, Gram, it’s best. . . .” 

“Whit’s a decent sort,” he said, evasively yet mean¬ 
ingly* “but I don’t want to butt in. . . .” And then 




THIS WOMAN 


241 


he fell silent, although he gazed at the unopened box 
on the table.” 

Carol flushed as she read his mind, and reproached 
herself for her needless discourtesy, yet she steeled her¬ 
self against the desire to look at the blooms, to peer 
inside and learn whether or not Whitney had given 
some cryptic meaning to a brief note on his card. 
Yet she felt that to do so in Bleeker’s presence would 
be the height of folly, for she probably would not be 
able to mask her emotion, and that would never do. 
So she sat quite still for a moment, tapping the rug 
with her heel, and then, as a sort of safeguard, she 
came to a quick decision. 

“Gram,” she said very slowly, “I want you to do 
something for me . w . something really vital . . . 
that I can’t quite do myself.” 

“Why of course,” he answered willingly, and waited 
for her to go on, but for a little while she hesitated 
to speak. 

“It’s about Whitney,” she found the courage at last, 
although her reluctance was plain in her confusion. 
“I’ve done my best ... or my worst,” she made an 
effort to smile, “to make him forget about me without 
hurting him deeply. But it doesn’t seem to be any use, 
because he’s so fine and big that he simply won’t get 
over being sorry for me . . . but I wish we could just 
be friends . . . that he’d go on liking me . . . and 
marry some other girl. If he would do that, I could 
be supremely happy. . . .” 

“Could you?” Bleeker put in, with feigned surprise 
and fully evident doubt. 

“Yes,” Carol forced herself to utter the word with 
conviction. “Won’t you tell him, Gramercy, in the way 
another man can, that it’s perfectly, foolishly hope¬ 
less for him to go on with the thought that I may 
change . . . tell him, frankly, please do, just how 
hopeless it is!” 




242 


THIS WOMAN 


“Sure I’ll do that,” he said quizzically, “I’ll make it 
a pomt to tell him . . . just how hopeless it is.” 

But if Carol caught his inflection, she had no time 
to protest, for as he was speaking, Aline came breezily 
into the room, a perfect Paquin picture dressed for a 
promenade. 

“Have you two been petting each other?” she chal¬ 
lenged, as she noticed Carol’s embarrassment and the 
grin on Bleeker’s face. “I know you have, and I’m 
horrified. . . .” 

“If it didn’t take you two hours to dress, I wouldn’t 
steal your beaux!” Carol retorted smilingly as she 
recovered herself, and Bleeker nodded his head in 
approving confirmation. 

“Promptness is a virtue that vampires should culti¬ 
vate,” he shook his finger at her, “but you surely don’t 
suppose I’m going out for a walk with you dressed in 
such a costume?” 

“No?” the penciled eyebrows arched, “is it too old 
or too young, too gay or too somber ... or too 
what ?” 

“Too tempting, my dear!” he assured her. “To see 
you like that makes me want to sit on the sofa all day 
. . . why should we waste time in walking . . . !” 

“Idiot!” she stamped her tiny pump. “Get your 
bonnet and crutch and come on! Every man who sees 
you with me will promptly pay up what he owes you.” 

“You fail to comprehend the seriousness of the situa¬ 
tion!” he sighed with a wink at Carol. “Your tout 
ensemble will make folks imagine I’m airing a model 
from Lucille’s, and my spotless reputation will be 
ruined . . . utterly ruined , my dear!” 

“Carol must have stolen your brains! . . . Give me 
a cigarette!” she made a move at him, and as she lit 
it, murmured, “I hope your program has more pep 
than the ones Stratti provides !” 

“I thought we might feed the swans by the lake or 
watch the sheep graze in the meadow,” he suggested 





THIS WOMAN 


243 


tormentingly. “There can't be any harm in that, since 
Carol will chaperone us.” 

“Oh, no she won’t!” Carol smiled, and leaned back 
luxuriously. “This is the day I’m going to rest from 
my arduous labors, and incidentally, improve my mind 
with a little belated study.” 

“You’ll do nothing of the sort!” Aline caught her 
hand in an effort to pull her to her feet. “If you don’t 
come out and get the air, I’ll tell Stratti on you! Be¬ 
sides, you certainly don’t expect me to walk alone with 
this impossible person, do you ? He’d bore me to death 
before we get to the corner!” 

“Aline, I mustn’t!” Carol begged, wishing to be 
alone, and also subtly sensing the fact that Bleeker, 
despite his teasing, was eager for a tete-a-tete with the 
girl whose frock only made her fascination the greater. 
“I’ve several songs to learn, and Stratti will be very 
angry if he finds out how I’ve been neglecting my 
work.” 

With flashing eyes and the faintest sign of a flush, 
Aline turned upon Bleeker, and he raised his arms as 
though to protect himself from assault. “Goose!” she 
branded him brutally, “haven’t you told her yet?” 

“We’ve been chatting of more important things,” 
Bleeker explained incorrigibly, and Aline flung a sofa 
cushion squarely at his head. 

“Well, she might as well know the worst!” she an¬ 
nounced with a sigh. “Condole with me, Carol,” she 
begged, “I’ve promised to marry this man!” 

“How perfectly splendid!” Carol cried, springing up 
eagerly, and throwing her arms about the bride-to-be. 

“How perfectly stupid!” Aline sniffed. “Bye-bye to 
liberty and the pursuit of happiness! Last night, in a 
moment of mental aberration, I let him persuade me I 
loved him. Now can you imagine me so absolutely 
silly? But the most terrible part of it is that I meant 
it! Now, hardly twelve hours after I’ve said yes, he 
forgets to bring me flowers and has the utterly absurd 





244 


THIS WOMAN 


idea that he wants to sit on a sofa and spoon with his 
own fiancee!” 

Guiltily, Carol turned to the box on the table, and 
before Bleeker could protest the negligence charged, 
Aline was tugging at its ribbon, quite innocently 
believing that he had brought the flowers with the 
intention of giving them to her in person. 

“Listen, dear,” he found his voice, with a gesture of 
apology as he helplessly turned to Carol, “I didn’t 
bring those . . . really. . . 

“Oh, rot!” snapped Aline. “I suppose you want me 
to think the fairies brought them!” And without so 
much as a glance at the card, she lifted a dozen roses 
from their bed of tissue and ferns. 

But Bleeker stooped to the rug and recovered the 
little envelope, on which Carol’s name was written. 
“I’m sorry,” he said with real regret, as he passed it 
to her, and Aline suddenly realized what a mistake she 
had made. 

“Pm sorry too!” she added genuinely, “but it’s all 
Gramercy’s fault, and you won’t really mind will you 
dear?” 

“Of course not,” Carol said, but there was a catch 
in her voice, and the envelope fluttered to the floor as 
she stared at the card itself. The roses were from 
Stratini, and in his odd European hand he had scrawl- 
ingly written, “For a painstaking pupil from an 
approving maestro.” 

The shock of the message, with all it implied, stunned 
her for a moment, and instantly Aline sought to relieve 
the embarrassment of a trying situation. 

“Why the old brute!” she pretended to fly into a 
rage. “Yesterday afternoon, he promised to buy us 
both a bouquet . . . and then forgot all about it . . . 
just like Gramercy here. So you’ll have to divide with 
me when we go out. That’ll teach Gram a lesson, and 
tell everyone we meet that you’ve no more use for 
Stratti than I have!” 




THIS WOMAN 


245 


As delicately as she stressed the word everybody , 
Carol was instantly grateful for Aline’s thoughtful 
suggestion, and taking the roses from her, she began to, 
separate the stems into two equal piles. 

“What’s more,” Aline went on, as though irrepress¬ 
ibly, but with designing intent to put Carol at ease, 
“If we meet anyone on the way, you must promise not 
to desert us. I simply won't be alone with Gram this 
afternoon!” 

“You’re a darling!” Carol whispered as she em¬ 
braced her again. “Only you could have thought to 
say that; and Aline, dear, I’m so glad that you’re 
going to marry Gram!” 

Bleeker shoved his hands in his trousers pockets and 
began to pace up and down, pretending to be perplexed 
in this double presence. “How hap -py a fel-low might 
be, with tfi-ther fair char -mer a- way!” he broke into an 
atrocious falsetto, then laughingly dodged the slap 
Aline aimed for his ear. But she waved him a kiss in 
token of thanks for his support, and fondly caressed 
him with a look from the depths of her eyes. Yet there 
was a trace of a tear of sympathy in them as she 
turned to urge Carol to hurry and fetch her wraps. 

“And don’t stop to primp!” she ordered in despera¬ 
tion. “I’m positively afraid to be left with this moon¬ 
struck man.” 

“Oh, the moon shme's right in the old boot^ger’s 
home!” Bleeker began to crone, and his ridiculous 
croaking broke the tension at once. 

“All right, you two!” Carol agreed. “I’ll be ready 
in just three minutes!” And hiding her emotion with 
eagerness to be off, she hurried out of the room. 

“Damn shame!” Bleeker said in a low tone, as Carol 
disappeared along the hall. 

“I wouldn’t have had it happen for worlds!” Aline 
told him contritely, “for of course she thought . . . 
well you know! And some day, dear, Fm hoping that 
they'll be happy.” 




246 


THIS WOMAN 


“Are you?” he asked as he caught her close and 
pressed her face against his. 

“Yes, darn you!” she laughed up at him, “you know 
perfectly well I am . . . and that’s what makes me 
hate you! I hadn’t the slightest intention of getting 
engaged so soon . . . that is, realty engaged, you 
know . . . love-you-tiU-I’m-a-red-hot-cinder stuff, and 
all that!” 

“Sweet little devil!” he cuddled her, “long may you 
burn!” 

“Be my big strong stoker, and I’ll be your lump of 
coal!” she peered over his lapel with mischief in her 
eyes. 

“More precious than diamonds is my love, now that 
the strike is on!” he hummed a simple tune as he 
whirled her about the room, and they generally acted 
like idiots until Carol came and caught them. 




III. 


Whitney Duane stood in a window of the Lotus 
Club, looking out at the busses in Fifty-seventh Street. 
Arising late, he had breakfasted and gone for a walk 
to be alone with his thoughts. Now, as he meditatively 
puffed at his pipe, he had no craving for luncheon, but 
he did feel a gnawing need for diversion. Yet he could 
not make up his mind how to spend the afternoon. 
Pedestrians headed for Carnegie Hall suggested a 
symphony concert, but the soloist was a singer and 
music would only recall the ache he wished to forget. 

Gramercy Bleeker had phoned earlier in the day, 
and Whitney felt strangely contented at the news 
concerning Aline. Their marriage was bound to be 
happy despite their restless, excitement-craving na¬ 
tures, and Whitney smiled to think of the two settled 
in their own home. Playmate and companion to both 
of them since childhood, he was as eager for their wel¬ 
fare as for his own, yet knowledge of their engagement 
left him incredibly lonely, a sensation which would 
grow stronger when the ceremony was over and he 
should still be single. 

By this time, Gramercy would be at the Rhinebeck- 
Sturdevant apartment, and Whitney’s natural impulse 
was to hasten there himself. What more natural than 
for him to be first to felicitate the charming bride-to- 
be P Yet because of Carol’s presence in the familiar 
household, he felt its hospitable doors barred to him. 
Crowding upon the joy of their night on the sands at 
Clifcleft, Carol’s note of dismissal had wounded him 
so unexpectedly that it left him in a daze. Whitney’s 
hurried departure had been characteristic. His fine 
nature forbade an appeal from Carol’s decision, yet in 
247 


248 


THIS WOMAN 


weeks of solitude he had not been able to frame an 
intelligent course of action. 

Ordinarily, pride would have caused him to shroud 
his sorrow with an air of nonchalance, for dissipation 
and senseless flirtation were both repugnant to him. 
Then, too, he had not forgotten his resolution to prac¬ 
tice law with added earnestness, and already his senior 
partners were delighted with his zeal. But delving into 
lawbooks and daily pleading in court did not compen¬ 
sate for the lack of the thrills of polo, nor did occa¬ 
sional canters and turns on the links serve to ease his 
mind. 

The previous day’s encounter had upset his efforts 
at calm resignation completely, and a sleepless night 
had made him feel like an outcast hermit. The thing 
was unbearable, intolerable . . . unfair! His momen¬ 
tary glimpse of Carol’s emotion as he had stooped to 
recover her ravished orchids, confirmed his belief that 
his conge did not come from the depths of her heart. 
Without the slightest suspicion or jealous reaction, he 
recognized Stratini as the instrument responsible for 
her attitude ... to a degree at least. However,.he 
did not fail to take into account the hurt which his 
uncle’s utterances must have caused the girl. Despite 
his persistent efforts to convince himself that he was 
in no way to blame, he knew that he was undoubtedly 
the unintentional cause of the newspaper articles, and 
no one regretted them more. 

Never having met Carol personally, Doctor Duane 
could know nothing against the girl except idle gossip 
. . . those silly stories related by women like Estelle 
Delancey and her irresponsible, reprehensible coterie. 
Normally, the Rector’s regard for Mrs. R.-S. would 
have counseled caution, yet his fallacious horror of 
everything theatric had undoubtedly made him resent 
the likelihood of Carol’s becoming his niece. Now, to 
add to his ill temper, Whitney found himself twitted in 
all his clubs each time his uncle broke into print in 




THIS WOMAN 


249 


flaring headlines. And these times were becoming more 
frequent. That he never referred to Carol or to Stra- 
tini did not tend to mitigate the sting of his constant 
slurs. That Mrs. R.-S. herself had broken with Dr. 
Duane did not seem to deter this man whose head had 
been turned by the wine of public attention. In his 
unreasoning zeal, the Rector failed to see that his 
Bishop and his parishioners, as well as most newspaper 
readers, took what he said with a grain of salt and 
questioned his sincerity if they did not doubt his sanity. 
But Mrs. R.-S. had not as yet preferred any charges. 

His own difference with the Rector had pained 
Whitney deeply, not only because of its resulting break 
with Carol, but because he had always been more than 
fond of the clergyman. Taught to revere the older 
man since his earliest recollection, and proud of the 
churchly position his relative occupied, it was not 
pleasant for Whitney to see his idol crumble and make 
himself a spectacle in the eyes of thoughtful people. 
No doubt the world did need gentle counsel and level¬ 
headed foresight, but Whitney could not believe that 
its burdens would be lightened by carping criticism and 
constant impatient nagging. Certainly, the Rector’s 
arraignment of his friends, and their fads and fancies, 
did not tend to make Whitney contented. On the con¬ 
trary, he grew restive as the days dragged on . . . 
more out of patience with himself for tamely submit¬ 
ting to a situation which was galling enough in itself 
without having his uncle’s sermons rub salt into open 
wounds. 

So, with sudden determination, he swung about on 
his heel, resolved to face the Rector and plainly speak 
his mind. His conclusion to visit the dignified old man¬ 
sion in quiet Waverly Place had not been easy to 
reach. Resentment was deep in his heart, and since he 
could not go humbly, it went against his grain to seek 
such an interview. He loathed scenes , ana he knew 
that one was inevitable once he broached the subject. 




250 


THIS WOMAN 


Respect for his uncle forbade giving way to his temper, 
and even under the stress of unusual provocation, 
Whitney’s manner was mild, in spite of a dignified 
firmness. Then, too, since he was no longer the Rec¬ 
tor’s heir, those who might learn of his going would 
probably think his purpose purely pecuniary. Sen¬ 
sible as he was to the uses of wealth, Whitney’s soul 
revolted at being accused of mercenary intentions in 
endeavoring to resume recently severed relations. 

For purely financial reasons, he really would have 
preferred to maintain their estrangement indefinitely 
. . . at least, until his personal efforts had somewhat 
recouped his fortunes and made him independent. But 
his own desires must be put aside, if only for Carol’s 
sake, and his heart was hungry for her as he took his 
hat from the check-room boy and nodded in passing 
the doorman. If he could possibly persuade the Rector 
to cease his ranting, he felt that his sacrifice of pride 
would be well worth while. Carol and Mrs. R.-S. would 
understand his impulse, and he himself would feel 
relieved when he had unburdened his mind. 

If his visit caused any comment, he meant to speak 
straight from the shoulder, and definitely align himself 
against the clergyman, yet he fondly hoped that some 
turn of affairs would occur to avert such a rupture. 

Swinging across the sidewalk, he caught the rail of 
a passing bus and climbed the curving steps, eager to 
finish his pipe and think as he rode. Yet he could not 
help smiling as he thought that recent habit ruled in 
making him forswear a taxicab at the curb. He had 
practiced little economies since the Rector had cut him 
off, and it had been really surprising how little he 
needed to spend. Not that he had denied himself 
modest accustomed luxuries, but merely that he had 
avoided expenses which were not essential. That was 
well enough so long as he had no one but himself to 
consider, but if he meant to marry, such penury would 
not do. Before the winter was over, Carol would no 




THIS WOMAN 


251 


doubt be earning more in a single night than he could 
make in a month. In seasons which would follow, her 
income would steadily mount, and, as an operatic star, 
she would be bound to live on a scale he cbuld not hope 
to afford. To accept her money was naturally not to 
be thought of, although he knew a score of men of his 
own position who did not hesitate to squander their 
wives’ fortunes on whims of their own, and on women 
of whom their wives did not approve. 

So he felt a supreme disgust with the world as he 
knew it, totally unconscious that several men on the 
bus had observed him with envy as he came out of his 
club. Even though they did not know just who Whit¬ 
ney might be, an indefinable something marked him as 
one of the favored few whose forefathers or fortunes 
give them the entr4 to Manhattan’s innermost circle. 

In fact, Whitney found himself wishing that Carol 
was lacking in talent and that he had been born in more 
humble circumstances ... at least, that their present 
positions would have permitted him to hasten to her 
with nothing more in his hand than his heart. But as 
the bus sped southward on lower Fifth Avenue, he 
steeled himself for the ordeal he knew was coming; 
even dared to hope that his errand might prove suc¬ 
cessful. It was almost absurd to dwell upon such a 
denouement, and somehow the tall, silent buildings and 
almost deserted sidewalks depressed him with their 
Sabbath calm, yet the very sense of achievement which 
the great office structures suggested gave him courage 
and confidence in the fight he meant to wage. 

Then, swinging down from the top of the coach, he 
crossed the street to the east, and made his way to the 
district where only a few remain who recall its departed 
glory, and dwell in the past behind fronts of crumbling 
magnificence. Ascending the brown-stone steps with a 
dignity demanded by the hauteur of the house, Whitney 
rang the bell and smiled as old Harper, the Rector’s 
man, bowed him through the door. 




252 


THIS WOMAN 


“Is my uncle at home?” he inquired, as he put his 
hat and stick on the old-style hall-rack, observing that 
Harper had aged since he had been there last. 

“I think the Rector is in his study, sir,” Harper 
ventured doubtfully. “Is he expecting you, Mr. Whit¬ 
ney, or shall I say that you’re here?” 

“I think that would be best, perhaps,” Whitney 
nodded, and passed on into the parlor, as heavily 
hideous as in the days whtto the Rector’s mother had 
wielded the social scepter and held her famous soirees 
in this funereal room. “No wonder the old boy’s 
gloomy!” Whitney thought, “it seems almost sinful to 
breathe in such an atmosphere!” And somehow a wave 
of pity came into his mind as he thought how lonely 
the man must be in the narrowness of his life . . . how 
limited his sympathy was with the ways of a new gen¬ 
eration. Yet a clergyman’s business is to learn and 
attempt to understand the motives which prompt his 
parishioners to hold the views they do, and Whitney 
found himself aware that his uncle had failed in this 
duty. 

Yet as Harper returned to announce him, he could 
not help but smile at the ritualistic ceremony with 
which the Rector elected to surround himself. Old 
Harper might have been some monk, conducting the 
caller to an abbot’s cell, and his manner made Whitney 
feel like a sinner en route to confession. What was 
once the library of the Duanes had been transformed 
to resemble a crypt of monastic impressiveness. Sim¬ 
plicity was its keynote, but its coldly correct architec¬ 
ture lacked the mellow richness of the churchly cham¬ 
bers after which it was patterned, just as its occupant’s 
air struck Whitney as artificial. 

The Rector had risen from a stately high-backed 
chair, on which his coat of arms was illumined, and as 
he stood by the antique table, with its exquisite carv¬ 
ing, the sunlight from a high, narrow window bathed 
him in a soft ecclesiastical radiance. Impressive as the 




THIS WOMAN 


253 


effect was intended to be, Whitney could not help 
believing that it was intentional. Doctor Duane had 
planned those tinted panes so that a sort of halo would 
glow about his head. The shaft of light illumined his 
studied pose just as the calcium silhouettes a skillful 
thespian’s gestures. And the obviously staged effect 
was distasteful to Whitney. 

“My dear boy!” the Rector exclaimed as he stretched 
out both his hands and Harper silently shut the heavy 
divided door, with its cloister panel. “The prodigal 
has returned!” 

“Returned but unrepentant!” Whitney smiled bit¬ 
terly as he shook his uncle’s hand without his usual 
warmth. “So slaying the fatted calf is hardly in order 
just yet. In fact, before I am through, you may be 
inclined to fall on my neck . . . and break it!” 

“I trust that the apparent flippancy of your words 
does not reflect your state of mind,” the Rector 
frowned haughtily. “You must certainly understand 
that I have ample cause to be vexed with you, my boy.” 

“I did not intend to be flippant,” Whitney told him 
frankly. “In fact the attempt would be out of tune 
with my mood; yet we might just as well come to a 
clear understanding in the beginning. I have not come 
to beg your pardon nor to sue for lenience, but to urge 
you to right a very serious, if unintentional wrong.” 

The Rector’s shoulders stiffened and his expression 
suggested that he, like the kings of old, was incapable 
of error. But he did not reply, and turned to arrange 
methodically a half-finished manuscript that was 
scattered over his study table. 

“You have found me in the midst of composing a 
sermon,” he said with intent to remind his nephew that 
his call was ill-timed . . . that his condescension in 
seeing him should be duly appreciated. 

“I have not heard you preach recently,” Whitney 
said pointedly, “but I have read certain reports of 




254 


THIS WOMAN 


your discourses. Frankly, I can hardly believe that 
you have been correctly quoted.” 

“Indeed?” the Rector interposed coldly. “Just what 
would lead you to assume that I have not been?” 

“The incredible statements which are credited to 
you,” Whitney told him calmly, and outraged resent¬ 
ment flashed from the clergyman’s eyes. 

“Whitney!” came the sharp reproof, “I will not per¬ 
mit such impertinence. It is quite sufficient that the 
attitude of younger folks gives me cause for criticism, 
without submitting to criticism myself.” 

“Which is precisely what’s the trouble with your 
whole attitude!” Whitney came to the point. “Nat¬ 
urally, no one answers you when you speak from the 
pulpit, which is perhaps the reason why some of us 
who are fond of you have ceased attending service. 
But you can hardly expect that we mean to sit quietly 
while you libel us in a fashion that would result in legal 
action if the utterances came from a financially respon¬ 
sible corporation and not from an irresponsible 
clergyman.” 

“What abominable abuse!” the little man folded his 
hands and cast his eyes upward. Then his expression 
grew cunning, and he sat down to peer at his nephew 
across the table. “Am I to interpret your words as 
meaning that you seek financial balm?” 

Whitney paled, and an unfrocked, younger man 
would have felt the force of his fist. “You know per¬ 
fectly well that such a suggestion is not only uncalled 
for, but an insult of which I would not have supposed 
you capable. . . .” 

“Yet you know that you cannot go to this singing- 
girl with an empty purse!” the Rector reminded him 
with virtuous justification. “Her longing for the flesh- 
pots has stifled all such sentiment as love. * . .” 

But something in the tensing of Whitney’s muscles 
warned him to pause, and he merely shrugged his 




THIS WOMAN 


255 


shoulders as his nephew came a step nearer and strug¬ 
gled with the fury that raged within him. 

“I suppose you are aware,” Whitney said after a 
time, “that the law would permit me to ask the courts 
to determine your sanity . . . and the kindest thing I 
can say of you is that I believe you demented.” 

“Do you realize what you are saying?” thundered 
the clergyman. 

“I only wonder if you do!” Whitney answered 
quietly. “You have estranged yourself from those who 
have been taught to look to you for guidance . . . 
you have made yourself a laughing stock wherever the 
telegraph carries . . . and you’ve made a circus-tent 
of the church we cannot attend and preserve our self- 
respect.” 

“If the shoe fits, my dear nephew,” the Rector re¬ 
called the saying with smooth intonation, a provoking 
smirk overspreading his smug, clean-shaven features. 

“It doesn’t fit, and you know it!” Whitney chal¬ 
lenged. “I don’t know how many thousands a year 
you receive for supplying the papers with such sensa¬ 
tions, and the money you make doesn’t tempt me to 
listen to you in silence. That you have seen fit to cut 
me off from the Duane inheritance ... a trust handed 
down to you to pass on to me ... is quite another 
matter, and I’ll tell you honestly, that I resent your 
action. The men whose shrewdness amassed our family 
fortune would look upon you with the utmost con¬ 
tempt. . . .” 

“Indeed!” sneered the Rector indignantly. “You 
infer that I lack respect for the name we both bear, 
yet you would make an actress the mother of future 
Duanes!” 

“Yes,” said Whitney slowly. “I would . . . and I 
hope that I may . . . and this nonsense you prate 
about the stage would be too silly to notice if it were 
not so unfair. An actress is not vastly different from 
any other woman . . . from your mother or mine, 




256 


THIS WOMAN 


from the woman who waits on your table or the one 
who washes your clothes. Environment may have 
something to do with morality, but women are good or 
bad in spite of their positions. Why some of the sex 
whom you welcome here are putrid by compari¬ 
son . . . !”' 

“I hold no brief for well-born wrong-doers!” the 
Rector held up his hands. “If you have read my ser¬ 
mons, you must be aware of that. There is rottenness 
in high places as well as low stations, but I do not 
mean to spare anyone because of their wealth and 
position.” 

“You arrant faker!” Whitney flashed at him, and 
the Rector gasped. “I might have known the folly of 
trying to reason with you, but now that I am here, I 
am going to tell you the truth and you’re going to 
listen to me, whether you like it or not. You attacked 
what occurred at Clifcleft because you were unsuc¬ 
cessful in your suit for the hostess’ hand. You hate 
Baptiste Stratini because he sees through your shams 
and openly brands you for the mountebank that 
you are. But Mrs. R.-S. and Stratti are sufficiently 
strongly intrenched to place you beneath their 
notice. . . .” 

“This is preposterous!” cried the clergyman, rising 
and pacing the floor. “I will not be so maligned in the 
sanctity of my study!” 

“You will listen until I have finished!” Whitney told 
him tensely, “and if it is needful to silence you, I shall 
go to the Bishop and tell him why I consider you a dis¬ 
grace to your cloth; but as for things which concern 
me more, I shall handle them myself, and before I’m 
through with you, I’ll make you retract every word 
you’ve said against the woman I still hope to marry in 
spite of your unfounded libels!” 

“Now let us be calm,” the Rector cut in, aware that 
the situation was slipping from his control. “You and 




THIS WOMAN 


257 


I are both Duanes, and it is not meet that we should 
besmirch our family escutcheon. . . 

“I am not conscious of any unseemly behavior,” his 
nephew said. “It is you wjho have cheapened our name 
by signing it to twaddle unworthy of any pulpit, but 
that, I suppose, is more or less your own affair. . . . 
What concerns me is your remarks about Miss Dray¬ 
ton, and to tell you plainly, exactly the way I feel . . . 
every word you’ve uttered is a baseless, deliberate lie !” 

“Whitney!” Doctor Duane bubbled with indignation. 
“You will withdraw that word!” 

“I will,” Whitney smiled, “when you prove what 
you’ve told the papers about the woman t love.” 

“Is further proof than I have given needed to make 
you realize why I have said these things?” the Rector 
vainly tried for conciliation. “Do you suppose I would 
have put all personal concerns behind me, have made 
enemies among my dearest friends, estranged my fellow 
churchmen ... if I were not convinced of the right¬ 
eousness of my cause?” 

“Righteous rot!” exclaimed Whitney, resenting the 
other’s hypocritical defense. “You assume arbitrarily, 
that certain things cannot be good, and consequently, 
that anyone associated with those things, is of neces¬ 
sity bad. You never presumed to criticize anything 
done at Clifcleft until Mrs. R.-S. put an end to your 
absurd attentions, and you would never have troubled 
to lift your voice against Miss Drayton if it had not 
been for the patronage of Baptiste Stratini and the 
fact that you feared my interest in her might result 
in our marriage!” 

“You are wrong, my boy, lamentably wrong,” the 
Rector rubbed his hands regretfully. “If I have not 
spared the lovely lady whose name you have seen fit to 
interject in our conversation, that fact only goes to 
prove my sincerity. If my stand against this singer 
has brought you anguish, does it not demonstrate that 





258 


THIS WOMAN 


I will not deviate from my well-founded convictions 
even to spare my own?” 

“It does not!” Whitney answered abruptly, thor¬ 
oughly out of patience with repeated attempts at 
evasion. “It does conclusively prove that you have 
made us the targets of your spite, and that you are 
disgracing the position you hold by making it serve 
your personal ends, socially and financially. It was 
bad enough when you were discovered on the payroll 
of certain millionaire cranks who pose as reformers; 
but your deliberate distortion of social conditions, in 
order to earn the checks of certain yellow journals, is 
beyond all excuse. Why, even the depths to which 
Estelle Delancey stoops can hardly be called worse!” 

“So now it is Mrs. Delancey!” the Rector sighed 
and shook his head. “Really, my dear Whitney, your 
indictment is much too rambling to follow!” 

“Is it?” snapped Whitney. “Do you mean to tell 
me you don’t know her blackmailing game . . . how 
she accepts invitations and uses her entre to gather 
the gossip she sells to Social Chat and certain dis¬ 
gusting dailies?” 

“Absurd!” the Rector refused to believe. “Your 
information carries you away . . . makes you behave 
very badly toward an estimable girl.” 

“Oh, does it?” Whitney shot at him. “It so happens 
that I can prove my statements. Only last week, 
Schermerhorn Van Vleet asked me to prepare the 
papers in a criminal action against the woman you 
choose to defend. . . .” 

“My boy! You cannot mean that you propose to 
appear in such a proceeding ... to lend yourself to 
such a disgraceful action in the courts?” 

“No?” Whitney smiled sarcastically. “It would 
seem that we Duanes must relish notoriety. But in 
this instance, the fair Estelle went a step too far. 
Schermerhorn is not going to prosecute her if she will 
make a full denial of the story she gave to an editor 




THIS WOMAN 


259 


who tried to hold him up for fifty thousand to have its 
publication stopped. However, we mean to see that 
she quits this little game. . . 

“There must be some mistake!” the Rector pro¬ 
tested. “I cannot believe what you say, and I certainly 
fail to see how you can have evidence to prove it.” 

“Can’t you?” sneered Whitney. “I have the best 
evidence in the world, in one instance . . . something 
I witnessed with my own eyes ... a story circulated 
by Estelle about Miss Drayton, when it was Estelle 
herself who played the stellar role in the little farce 
I saw.” 

“Then you, too, must have been involved,” the Rec¬ 
tor charged. “Such first-hand knowledge could not 
have come to you if your own hands had been clean.” 

“Do you suspect everyone of evil intent?” Whitney 
demanded. “Can you not conceive of anyone’s having 
decent motives?” 

The Rector made a gesture of resignation. “In¬ 
stead of refuting the statements I have made, you 
merely supply me with additional confirmation of the 
condition I have exposed.” 

“Will you base a sermon on it?” Whitney inquired 
cynically. “It would make rather a good one . . . 
yet something of a boomerang, perhaps . . . showing 
how you both utilize the frailties of our social structure 
and increase your incomes!” 

“Do you charge me with doing that?” the Rector 
cried, infuriated, yet shrinking under Whitney’s dis¬ 
approval. “Do you presume to insinuate . . . ?” 

“I insinuate nothing,” Whitney answered him 
firmly. “Either you are mad to see your name in 
print, or else you are making capital of what you 
profess to condemn; but as for the slightest effort to 
do good iii the world . . . such an impulse is utterly 
foreign to your nature.” 

“Whitney, my boy!” the clergyman faltered, resting 




260 


THIS WOMAN 


his head on his hands, “you overwhelm me with the 
extent of your ingratitude; yet I forgive you. . . ” 

His nephew turned from him with a gesture of dis¬ 
gust ; but the Rector went on. 

... “I realize that it is only your unselfish love 
for this girl that has unbalanced your judgment . . I- 
that causes you to be bitter against me. Can’t you 
see that she cares nothing for you . . . that it is only 
the name and the fortune she thought you would 
bring her. . . .” 

“You forget that she has refused me,” Whitney 
reminded him coldly. 

“Naturally!” triumphed the Rector. “That was to 
be expected . . . since you are no longer wealthy . . . 
but it is better so. Even if she were the type of woman 
your infatuation pictures, great singers are too tem¬ 
peramental to make desirable wives. The very life 
they lead, the public adulation . . . private flattery 
. . the artificiality of the stage ... all result in 

the undermining of true domestic happiness. . . 

“Are you lecturing me?” Whitney interrupted. “It 
is a waste of time. Since you do not even know Miss 
Drayton, you cannot judge her. It is true that she 
expects and is entitled to a home becoming a woman of 
her talents. I could hardly ask her to marry me if I 
could not provide it; but I am satisfied that her reasons 
for refusing me are more deep-rooted than mere 
finances. Her real reason was not the fact that you 
decline to sanction our wedding; but was because of 
what you have said of her. Without one scrap of evi¬ 
dence, without giving her a chance to defend herself, 
you have damned Carol Drayton before the audiences 
who have not yet heard her sing ... in the minds of 
thousands who have had no opportunity to learn to 
love her for herself. And who can blame her? No 
wonder she hates me because you are my relation . . . 
because your hypocritical concern for me and your 





THIS WOMAN 


261 


pretended pride of ancestry have permitted you to do 
her a wrong for which you cannot atone!” 

“Then what do you wish me to do?” the Rector 
smiled indulgently, faintly amused. 

“Hold your scandal-monging tongue!” Whitney 
faced him furiously. “It is not my province to censure 
your sermons, but I warn you that if you so much 
as hint of Miss Drayton or me from this moment on, 
I will settle the score with you personally . . . and if 
Miss Drayton ever changes her mind, I mean to make 
her the wife of the last of the Duanes.” 

“Then I wash my hands of you,” his uncle said. 
“You have given me a bitter cross to bear, but I have 
the consolation of having done my duty!” 

“That must comfort you tremendously,” Whitney 
paused at the door. “If your conception of a clergy¬ 
man’s duty is defaming an innocent woman, I cannot 
agree with you; and if you consider the mission of the 
church the vilification of all our modem institutions, 
then you have robbed me of a great comfort . . . 
destroyed a beautiful, helpful belief which I shall sadly 
miss!” 




IV. 


“He is kissing her!” Stratini reported over his 
shoulder in a whisper, “and I rather believe she’s 
enjoying it!” 

Standing in the Rhinebeck-Sturdevant library, he 
was peering through the partly open door of the music- 
room, where Aline and Gramercy Bleeker were together 
by the window in the fading twilight. Mrs. R.-S., just 
behind him, peeped over his shoulder and faintly smiled 
as she saw that the two were unaware of their presence. 

“Silly!” she said to him softly, “shut the door at 
once before they hear you!” 

Noiselessly, he did as she bade him, and then turned 
quickly to drink in the beauty of the woman at his side. 
Her cheeks were tinted from their afternoon ride in an 
open motor, and her eyes were sparkling with happi¬ 
ness as they laughed back at him, the mother love in 
their depths blending with the tenderness of her regard 
for Stratini. 

“Beautiful one!” he cried out fervently, as he swept 
her into his arms and held her there quite helpless, 
although a willing prisoner, in his strong embrace. 
“Is it not wonderful that we may all be young 
together!” 

“But I am not young, Stratti,” she reproved him 
gently. “How can I be when Aline’s quite grown up, 
and my son-in-law to-be has almost as many gray 
hairs as I. . . .” 

“Tch!” he dismissed the suggestion. “Aline and 
Gramercy are but two great babies, while you and I 
shall never grow old no matter how long we live. In 
fact,” he went on admiringly, as she laid aside her furs, 
“if you continue to be so lovely, I shall soon be forced 
262 


THIS WOMAN 


263 


to grow jealous of good-looking striplings . . . espe¬ 
cially the dancing men . . . and those about eighteen. 5 ’ 

She smiled bewitchingly, and putting her head to one 
side appraised him quizzically. “And you?” she pre¬ 
tended to doubt him, “surrounded with beautiful women 
from morning till night, sought after, flattered, made 
much of . . . appealed to by damsels in distress, and 
hailed as the guardian angel of songbirds of gorgeous 
plumage. ... I wonder whether I shall not have to 
look after my laurels ?” 

“Shall I swear eternal devotion ... on my knees? 55 
he asked, and his eyes twinkled. “I really hope you 
won’t ask it, my dear. . . . I’m a trifle stiff from sit¬ 
ting so long in the car.” 

“Then I’ll not exact it,” she promised laughingly, 
“but you mustn’t behave like Romeo and expect me to 
act like Juliet.” 

She pushed him away and settled herself in a com¬ 
fortable fireside chair, while he stood with his back to 
the blazing logs and smiled down at her fondly. “Why 
not?” he asked. “It’s an old theatrical saying that no 
woman is old enough to play the role until after she’s 
forty. . . .” 

“Then I’m eligible!” she assured him, “but in spite 
of your silly compliments, I hardly look the part.” 

He shrugged and leveled his monocle at her slender 
silken ankles, reflecting that her figure as well as her 
features were far more exquisite than those of many a 
debutante, and quite aware that her physical charm 
only added to the cause of his adoration . . . and 
Stratini had known many women, although he had 
never before asked one to marry him. 

“There you are wrong. He shook his head and 
twirled the cord of his eye-glass. “It will be time 
enough to be sensible when we are senile. In the mean¬ 
time we must not grow away from romance, for life 
would be dull without love, and love cannot thrive upon 
mere spiritual sentiment. So, I shall kiss you as much 




264 


THIS WOMAN 


as I like, and sometimes, you must flirt outrageously, 
just so that I may remember how beautiful you are 
. . . how utterly desirable younger and handsomer 
men find the woman I worship.” 

“You are incorrigible!” she laughed; “years of 
whispering flattery into pretty ears have made court¬ 
ship a habit and an accomplishment . . . second 
nature to you. Why, Stratti, I don’t believe you’d 
know how to be faithful!” 

“You have taught me,” he said with a little bow. “I 
have never been faithful, because no woman has ever, 
possessed me completely . . . body, mind and soul . . . 
until now. No man can be faithful until a woman means 
everything to him . . . and when she does, he cannot 
be anything else . . . assuming that the man has the 
mental capacity to appreciate a woman who can dom¬ 
inate his passions and his thoughts to the exclusion of 
everything else.” 

“You believe that possible?” she asked skeptically. 

“With some women . . . and some men. Others do 
not really love . . . they only try to delude themselves 
. . . and their folly ends in disaster. Love is purely 
mental, and whatever else it may demand is incidental 
. . . happiness prized the more highly, because the 
mind proclaims it perfect. To the connoisseur, only 
the flawless masterpiece is worthy of possession.” 

“Yet there are collectors who take pride in the extent 
of their treasures,” she mused, “who cannot bear to 
think of a rival’s having another rare specimen.” 

“Madam!” he glared at her. “I’m not wholly a 
pagan, and even if I desired to dabble in art, my modest 
fortune forbids my emulating . . . certain more 
wealthy patrons.” 

“Now sit down and try to be serious,” she commanded 
abruptly. “I want to talk to you about Carol. . . .” 

“Surely yon are not going to accuse me . . . ?” 

She stopped him with a gesture, but of course he was 




THIS WOMAN 


265 


not serious, and instantly he realized that Mrs. R.-S. 
was worried about their protegee! 

“Carol has come to mean a great deal to me,” she 
said, “and I know you are wrapped up in her. . . .” 

“Naturally,” he nodded. “She is the basis of the 
most wonderful experiment I have ever attempted . . . 
except the one I shall try to complete as your husband.” 

“Let us forget ourselves for the moment,” she begged 
him earnestly. “You have done a wonderful thing for 
the girl . . . but somehow, I cannot feel that I’ve done 
my full duty. . . .” 

“What more could you have done?” he demanded. 

“Materially . . . nothing,” she admitted, “but I 
wonder whether, in trying to help her, we have not com¬ 
pletely destroyed her happiness.” 

“Absurd!” he snapped impatiently. “Do you think 
the only happiness worth having centers about an affair 
of the heart, or is bounded about by a wedding ring?” 

“I did have some such notion . . . but perhaps it 
was absurd!” She looked up at him. 

“That is unfair, my dear Eleanore!” he objected. 
“Marriage is excellent for Aline ... it will keep her 
out of mischief . . . and the girl has nothing else in 
the world to occupy her mind. With you and me, it 
is different, too ... it is high time we were married 
. . . yet perhaps we will be happier for having waited 
a while.” 

“Sometimes a woman can wait too long . . . and 
once her heart is broken, the hurt of it never heals. 
Baptiste, can’t you see that she’s utterly miserable?” 

“Or imagines she is!” he shrugged. 

“I know she is,” Mrs. R.-S. insisted. “She would 
marry Whitney to-morrow if it were not for the 
things his uncle has said . . . unfair things, I grant 
you . . . but the direct result of our attempt to force 
her to an operatic career.” 

“Force her!” Stratini laughed sarcastically. “I 




266 


THIS WOMAN 


wonder how many women would pay any price I 
asked for the opportunity we have given her!” 

“You’re wrong there. She’s paying for her chance 
. . . and paying a heavy price . . . for something 
that may mean less than nothing to her, even when 
it is hers.” 

“That all depends upon what she wants . . . but 
really, my dear, there is ample time to find out. If 
she deeply cares for Whitney, she will tell him so 
some day; and if he is as earnest as he seems to be, he 
will wait until that day comes. In the meantime, I 
am giving them both a chance to prove themselves 
. . . and giving our friend, the Rector, rope with which 
to hang himself!” 

“Just what do you mean by that?” 

“Ah!” he cried, kissing his fingers to her. “That 
is my little secret . . . my little joke. As yet, we 
are not married ... so you really cannot expect me 
to tell you everything.” 

“Unquestionably, you are the most exasperating 
man I ever knew!” she upbraided him. 

“Which is, no doubt, why you love me!” he said 
with a smile. “I shall so strive to keep alive the 
spark of your affection.” 

“I must confess that, at times, I cannot understand 
you!” she told him, a little annoyed. 

“It is because so few people understand me that I 
am able to do some things rather better than others,” 
he said with sincerity. “Because my methods are 
somewhat unusual, my purpose is not suspected . . . 
and when my subjects unwittingly fall in with my 
plans, the denouement is usually extremely interest¬ 
ing. For instance, you could not agree when I 
thought it unwise for you to resort to certain efforts 
in suppressing our friend, the Rector. I do not wish 
him silenced. Even a raving dogmatist has his place 
and his uses. I mean to use him ... in my own 
way.” 




THIS WOMAN 


267 


“You have not seen fit to confide in me, but I think 
you make a mistake,” s}ie said with conviction. 

“Perhaps, but we shall see,” he paused to light a 
cigarette. “Although you are willing to accept me 
as a husband, even you look upon me as a sort of 
freak. Like everyone else, you scoff at my peculiarities 
. . . poke fun at my actions. ‘Do not mind him/ you 
say, ‘It is like that crazy Italian to behave like a big 
buffoon!’ Am I not right?” 

“Almost,” she smiled. “But now I suppose you are 
telling me not to interfere?” 

“I had hoped you would not . . . just yet,” he 
answered frankly. 

“I’ve no doubt you know best,” she sighed, “but 
Aline told me about the orchids yesterday. Don’t you 
think you were rather brutal?” 

“Of course. I meant to be. But where is our 
Songbird? I have not seen her since.” 

“Here; if I’m not interrupting,” Carol herself re¬ 
plied, as she appeared from behind the portieres, draw¬ 
ing back, hesitatingly, surprised to see them there. 

“Naturally not,” said Mrs. R.-S. “Do come in and 
join us . . . and please ring for some tea.” 

“A decanter would be more in order,” Stratini 
turned to Carol. “I am parched, and besides . . . 
the Bishop is coming.” 

“Quite right,” came a voice from the hallway. “In 
fact the Bishop is here, and he thanks you, sir, for 
your timely thoughtfulness.” 

Startled, and feeling as though she wished to run 
away, Carol looked into the laughing eyes of the 
Right Reverend Frederick Rhinebeck, whose tall form 
towered above her as he stepped into the room. Broad- 
shouldered and powerfully built, he looked like a mili¬ 
tant churchman, and the hand which bore the epis¬ 
copal ring was larger than even Stratini’s, yet he 
placed it on Carol’s arm with a gentle pressure, and 




268 


THIS WOMAN 


she felt instantly drawn to the man as he detained 
her with kindly insistence. 

“So this is the charming surprise you have been 
keeping from me!” his rich tone chided, as he glanced 
toward Mrs. R.-S. “Is that quite fair when you know 
my fondness for singing?” 

“Perhaps Stratti will be generous and let you hear 
her later,” his hostess replied. “That is if Carol 
feels equal to the effort.” 

“Oh, I should love to!” Carol agreed, instinctively 
desiring to please him, and then felt a flush rush to 
her cheeks as she added with a smile, “only I’m afraid 
I don’t know any proper songs!” 

“My dear girl!” Bishop Rhinebeck protested, “you 
must not think we churchmen care for nothing but 
hymns . . . and I am particularly partial to many 
songs you must know.” 

“There he is!” came an outburst from the direc¬ 
tion of the music room, and darting across the floor 
with the force of a whirlwind, Aline threw her arms 
about the Bishop’s neck. 

“Aline,” he accused her solemnly, “it’s useless to 
try to fool me! I know there’s something you want, 
or you wouldn’t greet me like that.” 

“I don’t!” she pouted. “I don’t want a single thing 
. . . but Gramercy does and he’s too scared to ask 
you.” 

Rhinebeck laughed. “Then suppose you tell me 
the date, if it’s been decided,” he suggested, with a 
twinkle in his eye. “I suppose, of course, you’ll wish 
to be married in the cathedral.” 

“How’d you guess it?” Aline pretended surprise, 
and Bleeker came grinning sheepishly into the room. 

“Well, you see,” the Bishop answered, “the symp¬ 
toms become familiar . . . after one’s officiated so 
often. Shall we drink to the health of these two?” 

“You may drink two healths if you like!” Stratini 
chuckled, and naturally enough, the Bishop’s glance 




THIS WOMAN 


269 


rested on Carol; but the expression he glimpsed in the 
depths of her eyes told him of his mistake, and in¬ 
quiringly he turned to Mrs. R.-S. 

“You’ve guessed it again!” Aline exclaimed, and 
her mother’s color heightened as the Bishop extended 
his hand to Stratini. 

“Now really, isn’t this splendid!” he said with gen¬ 
uine pleasure, and, raising his glass, he pledged them 
his hearty good wishes. Then, with a friendly smile, 
he crossed to Carol. “Since these lovers will be all 
wrapped up in themselves, we can talk to our heart’s 
content” ; he put her at her ease, and leading the way 
to the davenport, begged her to tell him how her 
studies were progressing. 

“And when do you make your debut?” the Bishop 
inquired, when they had chatted some time, and Carol 
had quite forgotten her earlier consternation at find¬ 
ing herself in conversation with him. 

“Some time this winter, I believe,” she answered with 
pride, and thrilled at the thought of his interest. 
“Signor Stratini has promised that I shall have a 
small part, shortly after Christmas . . . but, of 
course, it will only be an unimportant one.” 

“But it is marvelous that you are to appear at all 
so soon!” he praised with enthusiasm, “and no doubt, 
with such a maestro, you will soon have a leading role. 
Do you know,” he added thoughtfully, “God has given 
a wonderful gift to those who sing for us ?” 

“Then you do not . . . disapprove?” Carol found 
herself faltering, almost unable to believe what she 
heard him saying. 

“Disapprove?” he smiled indulgently. “Why should 
I, my child? Somehow, whenever I am at the opera, 
I am conscious of a great inspiration ... of a feel¬ 
ing that it is good to be there . . . and that I am a 
better man for listening to such voices.” 




V. 


Carol’s debut arrived unexpectedly, shortly after 
the New Year, when the Metropolitan season was at 
the height of its brilliance. And the announcement 
of her appearance set musical circles a-flutter . . . 
since Stratini’s proposal upset all precedent. It came 
about one morning when the papers announced the 
sudden death of Renee Gironde’s little daughter . . . 
killed in a motor mishap in the south of France. The 
prima donna collapsed when the cable came, and can¬ 
celing all her contracts, prepared to sail at once. 

Left with no logical Carmen , Stratini, with char¬ 
acteristic daring, named Carol to fill the place left 
vacant, and thereby stirred up a hornet’s nest in 
musical circles. That an unknown, untried pupil of 
even so famous a maestro, should be cast for the role 
of Bizet’s gitana, stunned the loyal admirers of grief- 
stricken Gironde . . . but in spite of the diva’s tears 
and overwrought temperament, the great Gironde her¬ 
self laughed at the news when she learned it at the 
steamship dock. She branded Stratini as imbecile , 
vented her wrath upon the reporters, and predicted 
the early fall of the Metropolitan’s prestige. 

The opera guarantors held a star-chamber session 
indignantly to protest, and the boxholders smiled and 
shook their heads as rumors again grew rife; but 
Stratini was adamant. No possible pressure could 
move him, and at once he proceeded to tighten up 
Carol’s intensive training. Only three short weeks 
intervened before the proposed performance, and the 
impresario spent night and day in schooling his star, 
smiling the while and refusing to listen to reason. 
He personally supervised her practice of each move¬ 
ment and gesture, consulted at length with costumers, 
270 


THIS WOMAN 


271 


and himself rehearsed her in scene after scene, down 
to the minutest detail. Each snap of her fingers was 
timed, each flutter of eyelids cadenced, until every 
bar of the music synchronized with her acting. 

Carol lived and fairly breathed in an atmosphere 
suggestive of old Seville ... of castanets and cig¬ 
arettes, and the strumming of soft guitars . . . and 
slowly and painstakingly the maestro created his 
Carmen. He taught her new tricks of twitching her 
head, and how to flirt with her shoulders ... to flash 
her eyes and click her heels, and swish a bright- 
colored shawl with languorous lure. He made her up 
with studious skill, and her hair was dressed over and 
over, until her mantilla draped itself with ravishing 
fascination. 

Frightened at first at the prospect, Carol soon 
caught the spirit which prompted Stratini to stage 
this surprise, and by the time she began to sing 
with the rest of the company, even the jealously dubi¬ 
ous acclaimed her as a find. Those rehearsals were 
held with the auditorium empty, and even the chair¬ 
man of the hoard was barred from the wings while 
Carol trod the stage, and Stratini tried out new 
touches which made his creation more charming. 

This element of suspense was a part of his plan, and 
as he shrewdly suspected, it stimulated interest. The 
night of Carol’s premiere would be a memorable one, 
and Stratini took full advantage of her being a pro¬ 
tegee of the Rhinebeck-Sturdevant family; winking 
his eyes and holding his tongue at whatever was said 
of himself in connection with Carol. Press agents 
were busy preparing copy, and Carol was photo¬ 
graphed in a series of artistic poses, all of which 
made the public, as well as the opera subscribers, 
eager to hear this discovery, whose personal beauty 
was obvious if her talent was still uncertain. 

Yet the incarnation of Carmen which Carol was be¬ 
coming could not be solely attributed to Stratini’s 




272 


THIS WOMAN 


molding. . . . From the first moment of her training, 
she had fancied herself in the role, and now she threw 
herself into it with unbounded enthusiasm. Physically, 
she was ideal for the part, and enhanced by the arts 
of the theater, she made a perfect portrait of the 
lovely, lawless hoyden whose escapades were a scan¬ 
dal in the streets of Seville, which made Carol smile 
when she thought that her portrayal would likewise 
cause a scandal in the most sacred precints of social 
Manhattan. 

For her debut offered the moment for which she 
had been waiting, and she meant to make it accom¬ 
plish a double purpose. Aside from her own ambi¬ 
tion, there was the obligation she owed her incor¬ 
porators. Now, if she were successful, she might 
pay her debt and find herself independent, a singer 
whose reputation would have been made overnight. 
Once solidly intrenched in the hearts of the public, 
she need no longer have any financial fears. But 
these were by no means the only things the situation 
suggested. The reputation she meant to gain must 
compensate, in some measure, for another reputation 
which she had irrecoverably lost. 

In the weeks that had passed since that Saturday 
afternoon at Claremont, she had spent many hours 
alone with her thoughts. Although unaware of Whit¬ 
ney’s call on the Rector, she was conscious of some 
subtle change in the man who loved her, and that he 
cared more than ever was all too obvious, despite 
the fact that she failed to understand what motives 
prompted the course he seemed to have chosen. The 
following Monday, she had received a note by mes¬ 
senger, begging her to receive him at her convenience. 
It contained no hint of his purpose, no declaration of 
Jove, but only a brief but earnest request that she 
see him. 

Her first impulse was to anwser yes, and to talk 
with him frankly, yet lack of confidence in herself 




THIS WOMAN 


273 


made Carol decide otherwise. And later on, as Doc¬ 
tor Duane arose to new heights of oratory, she was 
glad that she had done so. He seemed to forget the 
“follies of families of fashion,” as he had titled his 
earlier series of sermons, and now he concentrated his 
fire on the “shameless sirens who sing of sin from the 
stage!” 

Stratini had laughed good-naturedly, and he voiced 
the candid opinion that the Rector was wasting his 
time . . . that the clergyman should have sold his 
alliteration to the management of some traveling circus. 
But if newspaper readers also smiled, and the Rector’s 
expressions grew to be bywords on Broadway, this 
relentless vituperation had another effect upon Carol. 
She not only felt that Doctor Duane had separated 
her from his nephew, but that he had given her little 
alternative in choosing the guise in which to appear as 
a singer. Of course he had failed to mention her by 
name, and his references had been cunningly veiled since 
Whitney’s visit; nevertheless, his finger pointed plainly 
to her, and now that she was on the eve of her first 
appearance, the press agent Stratini engaged did not 
fail to use this peg on which to pin his stories. 

Bishop Rhinebeck’s kindly attitude, and the cold in¬ 
difference maintained by the Rhinebeck-Sturdevant 
household, had made her callous in one respect, to 
public opinion. Yet in spite of the fact that she was 
to blame for Whitney’s silence, Carol felt resentful over 
his seeming docile submission to his uncle’s attacks. 
So now that she might make her name stand for what¬ 
ever she willed, she resolved to give the Rector a fund 
of facts for his rantings, and to let Whitney see how 
little she cared what any Duane might think of the 
girl who would soon be the talk of the musical world. 

She recalled, a little bitterly, her emotions that night 
at Clifcleft, when she had made a like resolve to shock 
the guests at the beach-party; and she reproached her¬ 
self at the memory of her miserable failure ... of 




274 


THIS WOMAN 


her complete surrender when Whitney had pleaded 
his cause. But this time it would be different. Once 
and for all, she meant to sever relations with him, 
and henceforth her quest for happiness would be 
within her career. Cables would carry the story of 
her success abroad. There would be contracts, per¬ 
haps, in London and Paris and Rio, and her place in 
the list of notables would be more secure than that 
of remaining royalty. In time, she would have her 
fling at this Rector who had defamed her, and she 
meant to forget completely the incidents of the past 
which had been laid to rest in the library at Clifcleft.* 

Not since the day when Stratini had bade her live 
in the present, had she let her mind dwell on the month 
she had spent in prison. The events which led to 
her conviction seemed like some hazy dream, some 
imaginary existence which really never had been. No 
one could bring back that hurt, and no one would 
know of its scar, so now her only care need be to 
steel herself to her purpose. 

At last came the afternoon when she rested alone 
in her room, in order to be fresh for the ordeal of the 
great evening. Mrs. R.-S. was having guests for din¬ 
ner at eight, but Carol, of course, would not be of 
their number, for long before the liqueurs were served, 
she would be in her dressing room. Swathed in furs 
against the biting cold of the evening, she stepped 
across the pavement to the R.-S. limousine, just as 
the hands of her wrist watch pointed to seven. Lights 
were sparkling brightly, motor horns had a joyous 
note as they honked on the clear, still air, and the 
city seemed to Carol to quiver with eager excitement. 

Yet to her surprise, she found herself unexpectedly 
calm, determined and fully confident as she leaned 
back against the cushions, peering from the car win¬ 
dow with half-closed eyes. As a bride-to-be looks for¬ 
ward to her ride to the church, Carol had longed for 
this one on her way to the opera. Never had she 




THIS WOMAN 


275 


felt so well, nor experienced such elation . . . nor was 
she even impatient for the fall of the final curtain. 
She meant to enjoy each moment of what must be her 
triumph, and, devoid of all feeling of stage-fright, she 
peremptorily dismissed all admission of possible 
failure. 

Yet as the motor sped west through Fortieth Street, 
Carol found herself depressed as she realized her 
state of mind. If she were on her way to sing for 
the man she loved, if her object was to please and not 
to disgust him, she would have found her cup running 
over with sheer delight. As it was, her exaltation 
could only mean his dejection . . . but it was too late 
to turn back now . . . there was no time to recon¬ 
sider . . . and perhaps, as Stratini had often said, 
her silent suffering would result in her singing better. 

Halted at Broadway, to let the traffic stream flow 
with torrential force, Carol endeavored to regain her 
poise before the car should pause by the curb of the 
stage entrance. In the lights which flamed beneath 
the great porte-cochere of the yellow brick opera 
house, she could glimpse the play bills flanking the 
entrance. For the first time, she caught the flash of 
her own name, printed in giant letters on the poster. 
And in spite of the feeling she sought to forget, the 
sight gave her a start ... an electric shock which 
acted like a tonic. Soon the doors would be open 
and the audience streaming in, the musicians taking 
their places, and then the expectant hush ... at last 
the night of which she had dreamed was a dream no 
longer! 

A mounted policeman’s whistle started her from her 
reverie, in which she pictured a contrast from her 
present position ... a night when she had sat on a 
bench, alone in Central Park . . . when, from afar, 
she had looked at the glare of Broadway . . . won¬ 
dering whether to search for peace in the reservoir 
or the river. The limousine was moving now, slowly 




276 


THIS WOMAN 


and silently making it way up the side street, and 
pausing before the door which opened upon . . • 
Carol was wondering what? 

A liveried attendant bowed as she stepped to the 
pavement, electric signs blinked at her, and passers- 
by gaped at the girl who wrapped her furs about 
her, and hurried across the sidewalk into the narrow 
entry. Before she passed that way again, her future 
would have been decided, and Carol Drayton would be 
on the highroad to fame ... or down in the depths 
of despair. 

The doorman touched his cap and Carol gave him 
a smile, as self-possessed as though she were used to 
his greeting. Down the narrow passageway she 
caught a glimpse of a brightly illumined vastness, and 
the dusty mustiness of the stage, mingled with odors 
of grease-paint and the scent of oils and canvas, as¬ 
sailed her nostrils. Men in overalls were moving great 
frames, lashing together the parts of the set which 
would form the first scene. Somewhere she heard a 
violinist, tuning his instrument, and from a distant 
dressing-room came the pleasing sound of some singer 
testing his tones. 

Then out of the shadowy dimness, stepped a man 
in evening dress, a single eye-glass glittering in the 
glow of a wire-shielded bulb. 

“So you are prompt!” Stratini smiled, consulting 
his watch. “That is good. No artiste worthy of 
the name ever keeps her associates waiting.” 

“I thought you would be at the apartment,” Carol 
said in surprise, as Stratini led the way to her dress¬ 
ing-room. 

“Dinner is not until eight,” he reminded her, “and 
those who imagine I do not work, should see me here. 
With nine-tenths of the world so stupid, there is ever 
so much to do . . . and behind the scenes I find 
everyone is better for being watched.” 

“Do you drive them all as you drive me?” Carol 




THIS WOMAN 


277 


asked with a laugh, and Stratini nodded his head with 
complete satisfaction. 

“To-night, my dear,” he told her, “I shall claim 
the kiss which is to be my reward; and I’m sure I shall 
have earned it when the critics learn I was right in 
my judgment of you.” 

“I’ll give it to you gladly!” she put her gloved hand 
on his arm with intense emotion, “and I’ll never for¬ 
get that you did not ask any more. . . .” 

“But I did!” he reminded her, standing on the 
threshold of the boudoir-like apartment where her 
maid was waiting. 

“No, you didn’t!” her eyes flashed gratitude. “I 
understand why you said what you did . . . now; but 
I wonder if you will understand what I mean to do 
to-night.” 

Her voice faltered a trifle, but Stratini only smiled 
and slowly nodded his head. 

“I think so, Songbird,” he whispered, “but I’m not 
going to tell you the secret I suspect. All that I 
ask, my dear pupil, is that you will sing like the 
devil!” 

Carol nodded, and her laugh was meant to be gay, 
as she struck a Castilian pose and threw herself into 
the character he had taught her so completely. “Just 
wait!” she promised, closing her eyes seductively, and 
flashing fire through her lashes. “If you were the 
devil himself, you’d have no cause to complain of my 
voice or my acting to-night. New York never heard 
such a Carmen as I mean to be!” 

“Bravo!” he clapped his hands. “We shall show 
them, you and I . . . but now I must hurry, or I shall 
be late for dinner.” 

And like an eager schoolboy, bursting to tell the 
news of her splendid spirit, he shouted at the top of 
his lungs to have his car at the door. Then as she 
stood looking after him as he hurried along the cor- 




278 


THIS WOMAN 


ridor, he paused to glance over his shoulder and shake 
his finger at her. 

“Remember!” he cautioned sternly, “you must not 
step out of that room . . . and no one is to be ad¬ 
mitted. You will dress and rest, and wait . . . until 
I return. You are not to talk . . . you are not to 
think! . . . and remember that from this moment, 
you are not Carol Drayton, but a reckless, heartless 
coquette named Carmen ... a cigarette girl who will 
go to jail if she does not charm her captor!” 

The draught-door slammed, and he was gone. 

Why had he said that? she wondered . . . whether 
or not his warning had been deliberate . . . whether 
he meant to remind her that she had been in prison 
. . . and to suggest that her singing, and her acting 
to-night, could liberate her forever from everything 
she dreaded, if only she played her part with heart¬ 
felt abandon. 

“I will! I will!” she cried, as she entered the dress¬ 
ing-room, and, closing the door abruptly, stood with 
her back against it. 

In another mood she might have felt afraid of her 
maid, embarrassed that the woman had witnessed this 
outburst; but Stratini’s words had proved potent 
and pregnant with inspiration, and as she slipped out 
of her soft warm wrap, her whole personality under¬ 
went a complete metamorphosis. 

“Bah!” she snapped her fingers in the face of the 
maid. “Stop staring at me and find me a cigarette!” 
And tearing her toque from her head, she flung it 
across the room. $ 

Used to the tantrums of stars, the maid was not 
even surprised, but even a little gratified that Carol 
was not going to prove a nervous and diffident tyro. 
So she held a match for Carol, who blew the smoke 
from in front of her eyes with an impatient gesture, 
and carelessly glanced at the cards attached to the 
flowers which literally filled the room. 




THIS WOMAN 


279 


Then the tray of telegrams on the edge of her dress¬ 
ing table caught her attention, and she ran through 
them hastily, tossing them to the floor as she read 
them one by one. Buried beneath the others, was one 
which she read more carefully, and then thrust it into 
her bosom. It was from Bishop Rhinebeck, wishing 
her every success and regretting that churchly busi¬ 
ness detained him out of town. 

For a moment she felt she must burst into tears, 
and then she grew suddenly glad, for she doubted if 
she could go through with all she proposed if the 
Bishop was watching her from the Rhinebeck-Sturde- 
vant box. Yet now that she knew he would not be 
there, she felt a sense of freedom, and once more her 
spirit soared in spite of her heart’s depression. 

Standing before her mirror, stripped of her street 
clothes, her hair hung about her bare shoulders, and 
her cigarette completed the picture of a lawless gitana 
en dishabille . Her maid was taking her costume from 
the hangers behind the curtains, as Carol kicked off 
her pumps and stepped into red-heeled slippers, and 
their unfamiliar highness caused her to lose her bal¬ 
ance. With a little cry, she fell to her knees, over¬ 
turning a table piled with bouquets, and she found 
herself buried beneath an avalanche of flowers. 

“Bien!” exclaimed the maid, no longer alarmed, as 
she realized that Carol was not hurt. “It is an 
omen ... a sign that the fates are smiling . . . since 
the flowers wish to come to you even before the per¬ 
formance !” 

But as Carol regained her feet, the tears came to 
her eyes, and she silently stared at a tiny card her 
fingers had clasped unintentionally. It was Whit¬ 
ney’s . . . and detached from the blooms he had sent, 
she could not tell which bouquet was his . . . but 
what he had written impressed itself indelibly on her 
mind. . . . “May to-night's applause bring the hap¬ 
piness you deserve!” . . . And nothing more. 




280 


THIS WOMAN 


Whitney would be in front . . . with eyes for no 
one but her . . . and his ears would drink in her 
every note . . . eagerly hoping one might contain a 
message of cheer for him. The slightest slip and she 
might fail in the thing she meant to do . . . and fail¬ 
ure would only serve to sound the depths of his 
sympathy. 

“Madame is superstitious ?” the maid whispered 
fearfully. . . . 

“Certainly not!” Carol cried, with a careless toss 
of her head. “Fm in perfect voice and I mean to act 
as few singers can!” Then as she turned away, she 
tore the card to shreds, and hurled the tiny bits at 
her reflection in the mirror. “Oh, yes, I’ll act!” she 
told herself as she stifled a sob. “No one knows it 
but God, but God knows Fm acting now!” 




VI. 


Awaiting the moment of her entrance cue, Carol 
stood in the wings, surrounded by the chorus of gayly- 
clad cigarette girls, in stiff silks and fringed brocades, 
their eyes, half-veiled by mantillas, regarding the un¬ 
tried star with curious anticipation. At her side stood 
Stratini, pretending unruffled calm, but inwardly ap¬ 
prehensive now that the final test was at hand. Yet 
Carol might have been an experienced diva, to judge 
from her own restrained, if somewhat eager demeanor, 
and the impresario was frankly and proudly amazed 
at her rare self-possession. 

The asbestos drop still hid the vast auditorium, and 
the majestic sweep of the strings was far away and 
ghostlike, their ominous strains mingling with lugubri¬ 
ous brasses in foreboding the opera’s grim conclu¬ 
sion. Listening to the prelude’s dramatic crescendo 
of conflicting primitive passions, Carol felt that the 
Fate motif echoed her own emotions. The overture’s 
prophecy of impending disaster warned her to be¬ 
ware . . . then the reckless abandon of the score, in¬ 
sidious in its seduction, made her blood tingle and her 
pulses beat the faster. The March of the Toreadors 
and the spirited song of Escamillio thrilled her, sug¬ 
gesting the countless coquetries she meant to display; 
then the somber, audible shadow of an appalling 
denouement stunned her enthusiasm as the movement 
suddenly ceased with a detached chord . . . and the 
curtain arose. 

A current of air, the restless settling of the audi¬ 
ence, and the louder notes of the great orchestra 
told her the moment had come. Stratini was saying 
something, but Carol could not hear him. Babel broke 
loose and she found herself struggling in the midst 
281 


282 


THIS WOMAN 


of the chattering cigarette girls as they dashed into 
the canvas-walled public square and the full glare of 
the footlights. A striking figure in that vivid, colorful 
ensemble, Carol was at once the center of attention; 
then like the rumble of thunder, breaking into a roar, 
salvos of applause drowned the din on the stage and 
the strains of the music. 

For the moment, the brilliance of the lights blinded 
her and the front of the house presented a space of 
inky darkness in which she could make out nothing. 
Yet Carol knew that her friends, and no doubt Whit¬ 
ney too, were there in the pit and the boxes of the 
Horseshoe; and somehow she found herself bowing 
a smiling acknowledgment to their enthusiastic ap¬ 
plause. She dared not trust herself to peer too 
intently in the effort to find a familiar face in the 
sea that took on a semblance of human forms, and 
with a little sigh of renewed determination, she threw 
herself with verve into her sparkling role. 

Eyes flashing, jewels sparkling, she gave a swish 
to her fringed skirt and placed her hands on her hips. 
She threw back her head with an impudent toss, and 
her body undulated in sinuous cadence to the click 
of her castanets, as she spied the yellow uniform of 
Marcel Delatour, cast as usual, in the role of the 
brigadier Don Jose. From the top of her towering 
comb to the tips of her high-heeled zapatos , Carol 
made a picture to fascinate the dashing young dra¬ 
goon, and despite his pretended indifference, the tenor 
was visibly moved as he watched her. Delatour had 
sung as the luckless soldier to half a dozen Carmens , 
but never had one appeared so compelling as the 
slender girl before him. He found her superb . . . 
with more fire than the great Gironde . . . and he 
meant to respond to her acting with eager fervor. 

Carol displayed Carmen’s pique with admirable in¬ 
solence, and Don Jose’s fate was sealed indeed, as he 
heard the first of her notes in the famous Habanera . 




THIS WOMAN 


283 


Her graceful, Spanish gait was alluring in its sug¬ 
gestion as she edged through the throng to his side. 
Wild, unbridled passion seemed to blaze from her eyes, 
and kindled an answer in his, as her glorious voice 
flowed out into the amphitheater. Its sensuous, dreamy 
melody held her hearers enthralled, and she breathed 
the very spirit of the gay, warm-blooded gypsy who 
neither cared for nor understood any code of conven¬ 
tion, save that of unconventional, elemental passion. 

Now, out of the haze beyond the rows of glittering 
footlights, she suddenly recognized Aline in the Rhine- 
beck-Sturdevant box. Bleeker was standing behind 
her, and Mrs. R.-S. herself was intent on the stage. 
Carol arched her eyebrows and Aline caught her sig¬ 
nal as a girlish look of delight crept over her features, 
tense with the excitement of longed-for realization. 
Then the directeur signaled, and Carol was Carmen 
again, gazing through lowered lashes at the handsome 
Don Jose. 

Brilliancy and dash, mingled with utter abandon, 
made her doubly captivating, and now, soulless sug¬ 
gestion flashed from her languishing glances. Slowly 
she edged toward the brigadier, peering up into his 
face and displaying the turn of her ankle, temptingly 
tantalizing in every snake-like movement. Then the 
audience gasped as her passion grew threatening, and 
she seemed like a devil incarnate as she sounded her 
sweet notes of warning . . . 

“If thou me lovest not, I love thee, 

“And if I love thee, now beware! 

“But if I love you, if I love you, beware! 

. . . Beware!” 

Her wiles and her blanishments blended with brazen 
diablerie , and those in front, like the soldier, were 
utterly under her spell. Her exit was echoed with 
“Bravos!” and the stage seemed empty the moment 
this horribly glorious creature was gone. And in spite 




284 


THIS WOMAN 


of the lyric beauty of Olga Nazamoff’s voice, Micaela’s 
duet with Delatour left its audience cold. 

From his place beside the electrician’s board, Stra- 
tini sensed this evidence of Carol’s victory, and in an 
instant he knew that his pupil’s fame was secure. 
Those in front were eager for her return to the stage; 
even blase , seasoned patrons had lost their air of 
erniui. And now she was there again, her deviltry 
bubbling over as she danced sensuously to the rhythmic 
SegmdiUa. All too apparent as it was that she sang 
of the vulgarest love, the audience could not blame 
Jose for his blind infatuation. Stirred to the depths 
by her acting, critics and music lovers found them¬ 
selves enraptured by her physical lure and the charm 
of her marvelous singing. 

Vainly searching the orchestra stalls, and running 
her eyes round the boxes, Carol sought for a glimpse 
of the man to whom she was really singing, the man 
she was striving to impress, rather than Delatour 
. . . but in the glare of the spotlights, her vision 
was dim, and could not find Whitney Duane. Yet 
during that quick inspection she grew conscious of the 
flash of Titian hair and the gleam of creamy shoul¬ 
ders. Piercing eyes seemed focused on her, and she 
rather relished the scrutiny of an evidently bewildered 
Estelle Delancey. Carol recalled that night on the 
beach, and its subsequent story, and somehow a spirit 
of mischief prompted her to let herself go and live 
her role to the limit. 

Hands tied, yet woman-wise, she began to sing to 
Don Jose of the Inn of LiUas Pastia , tormenting the 
man with hints of her love and the revelry to be found, 
nigh unto the walls of Sevilla. Each movement intoxi¬ 
cating, she held her lips close to his, her head against 
his epaulette, her eyes deep pools of temptation . . • 

“• • • but alone one’s joys are few 

“Our pleasures double, shared by two . . ” 




THIS WOMAN 


285 


“I think,” whispered Gramercj Bleeker into the ear 
of Aline, “that the bird’s going to fall for it . . . 
and I’m sure I don’t blame him a bit 1” 

“Be still!” his fiancee reproved him, with a twinkle 
in her eyes, and then she sighed softly as Carol sang 
on . . . 

“But this new love, he loves me well; 

“And him to choose my mind is bent!” 

Of course the maddened Don Jose cut the cord which 
bound her, but it seemed that Carol’s cunning had 
earned her freedom without recourse to the custom 
of operatic score. The house went wild as the scene 
reached its climax, and from that moment until the 
fall of the first curtain, Carol’s ovation became a 
steady, tremendous crescendo. 

“The man’s a fool!” Bleeker opined, with a side¬ 
long glance at Aline, “but who wouldn't pass up 
Micaela for Carol Carmen Drayton!” 

“Of course you've no sense of duty!” Aline pre¬ 
tended iciness, “but just the same I’m glad that you’re 
not a tenor. Oh, look!” she clutched at his arm. 
“She’s coming out again . . . everyone’s gone in¬ 
sane !” 

Her voice was hardly audible amid the shouts and 
clapping, and the galleries broke from all restraint 
as the gods howled out their joy. Carol stood before 
the drop on the apron of the stage, deluged by 
flowers and hailed with delight that knew no bounds, 
yet, smiling and charming as she was, Mrs. R.-S. 
thought she saw a wistful, almost heart-broken look 
in the depths of the girl’s eyes. 

Then as the noise died down and the auditorium 
lights flashed on once more, Mrs. R.-S. looked about 
and bit her lip in annoyance. Whitney was not in 
his seat, and she understood the emotion which had 
driven him to the foyer, yet somehow she felt herself 
out of patience with him. If Carol was not to find 





286 


THIS WOMAN 


her triumph a hollow sham, those for whom she cared 
must share in it with her . . . and Whitney’s disap¬ 
proval would naturally prove a blow . . . unless the 
dawning suspicion she felt was sanely founded. Per¬ 
haps Carol had tried to impress him as she had Mrs. 
R.-S. . . . with a sense of repulsion that fondness re¬ 
fused to mitigate. But now as she saw a group of 
friends approaching her box, she turned to ask what 
Aline and Bleeker were chuckling about. 

“Oh, Mummy!” Aline exclaimed in sheer delight. 
“Honestly, he’s too funny for words!” 

“Who is?” her mother inquired, following her gaze, 
and as she did so her eyes encountered the Rector’s. 
Stern and pompous as he sat in his orchestra chair, 
Mrs. R.-S. was aware of the clergyman’s agitation. 
His fingers tapped the arms of his seat and a frown 
enveloped his features, while the twitching of his 
shoulders showed how difficult he found it to contain 
himself. 

She returned his rather stiff nod with an effort at 
cold composure, but under other conditions, she would 
have been constrained to smile. That Carol’s char¬ 
acterization had horrified the man, was all too obvious, 
yet surrounded as he was by the elite of his flock, he 
hardly felt this the time for an outraged outburst. 
Not that he would not have gloried in causing such 
a sensation, but because he was dubious of the results 
of such an unheard of attempt. Fully aware that the 
eyes of the press were watching him curiously, Doctor 
Duane was obliged to exert the utmost self-repres¬ 
sion. To stand in his place and thunder his wrath 
at the proscenium arch, appealed to his highly de¬ 
veloped dramatic instincts; yet the fear of being 
laughed at, of perhaps being hooted down, advised 
him that such a course would be extremely ill-advised. 

So the fact that, during the entire act, he held him¬ 
self aloof, gave evidence of the Rector’s certain uneasi¬ 
ness. His presence and his apparent mood did not 





THIS WOMAN 


287 


pass without comment, especially among the gay, 
chatting men and women who flocked to the R.-S. box. 
Since Stratini had strictly forbidden it, neither Aline 
nor her mother made any move to go back on the 
stage in the intermission, although Aline could hardly 
wait for the opera’s close, so that she might peek 
into Carol’s dressing-room. Mrs. R.-S., however, was 
almost as ill at ease as the lonely clergyman, and, try 
as she might, she could not content herself while 
she was being stormed with congratulations. Nat¬ 
urally Carol’s success, in a greater or lesser degree, 
was generally attributed to the sponsorship of the 
Rhinebeck-Sturdevants, which now made their box the 
mecca of the socially faithful. 

Yet those who watched from afar with envious 
eyes observed that Estelle Delancey remained alone 
in her box, deserted by her former friends, and even 
without her husband, who, it was covertly whispered, 
now considered divorce. Mrs. R.-S. had ignored Estelle 
and Aline had avoided her eyes, yet she bore their 
ostracism without a sign of flinching, and a look of 
supreme satisfaction lurked in her cryptic expres¬ 
sion. Just why she had chosen to bear this public 
snub alone, gave rise to idle gossip, and even prompted 
suspicion as to her ultimate purpose. 

Then as the audience sought its seats, and the house 
grew dark again, Mrs. R.-S.’s shoulders stiffened with 
surprise. Whitney Duane was closing the door of the 
Delancey box, and now with a pleasant nod and a 
whispered word, he sat down beside Estelle. She 
showed not the slightest sign that she considered his 
coming anything but usual* and it was instantly evi¬ 
dent that he joined her by appointment. From his 
orchestra chair, the Rector bowed to his nephew stiffly, 
and his puzzled air showed that he too lacked any 
understanding of Whitney’s unexpected presence . . . 
all the more amazing in view of what Whitney had 
said concerning his chosen companion. 




288 


THIS WOMAN 


But the curtain put an end to curious speculation, 
and Carol arose to greater heights as the tavern scene 
unfolded its tale of infatuation and Don Jose s struggle 
with duty. Whitney Duane was silent as Carol began 
to dance with even greater enchantment and with each 
click of her castanets, set her stage-lover’s hot blood 
surging. Whitney bit his lip in the scene where 
Carmen shows herself drawn to the Toreador , and 
when Zuniga appraised her with proprietary air, 
Whitney’s anguish reflected itself in the paleness of 
his features. 

But it was not until the mountain scene, when she 
read her fate in the cards, that Carol actually seemed 
the embodiment of Carmen . Casting the hated spades 
away in a tantrum of fury, her work was superb as 
she sank into the depths of despair. During the duel 
and the conflict of jealousies in its wake, it was evi¬ 
dent that her acting preyed deeply upon her emo¬ 
tions, and the audience felt her shudder when she 
leaned against a boulder to watch Don Jose and 
Micaela depart from the smugglers’ camp. 

To Whitney it seemed as though she depicted her 
own future, and he had no heart to witness the tragic 
finale the coming act would present. So as the cur¬ 
tain fell, he slipped away by himself, and as Carol 
accepted the plaudits which rang out in a furor of 
tribute, she sought in vain for Whitney’s face in the 
shouting, clapping throng, which arose to its feet 
en mass in unbounded admiration. 

Her thoughts went back to the night, when singing 
the Habanera , she had fainted and fallen, and Whit¬ 
ney had thrown her a coin as she slipped into the 
fountain. To-night, he did not even add his mite of 
polite approval to the tremendous ovation Carol had 
earned. The absence of even the slightest expression 
from him told her that if he had heard and seen, her 
plan to arouse his loathing must have succeeded too 
well. And with a sob that chilled her heart, she 




THIS WOMAN 


289 


dashed to her dressing-room, ignoring Stratini and 
slamming the door so that she might be alone. 

But even then she would not give way to the misery 
her triumph had brought her, for there still remained 
the final act in which to complete the picture ... in 
which to make her audience feel that she did not act 
. . . that she merely gave it a glimpse of her inner¬ 
most, sordid soul. 




VII. 


Pausing by the portal of his private office, Stratini 
looked over his shoulder toward the wings, through 
which he could glimpse the stage, set as the Plaza de 
Toros. The last act was in full swing, and above 
the majestic sweep of the orchestra, Carol’s clear 
notes rang out with mellifluous tone and volume. 
Slowly, the expression of seriousness on the impre¬ 
sario’s features gave way to a smile of satisfaction, 
and, stepping into his sanctum, he softly closed the 
door. 

Gladly, he would have remained in his place behind 
the proscenium arch to hear his pupil sing to the 
final curtain, but a deep, overpowering emotion had 
turned his silent footsteps to the room where he 
reigned supreme. Alone there, his intensely dramatic 
nature enabled him to enjoy to the full the fruits of 
his labors, without any need of masking the powerful 
sentiment surging within him. Even now, at the cli¬ 
max of his endeavors, he preferred to maintain, in the 
presence of others, the cynical exterior which con¬ 
cealed the generosity underlying his achievement. But 
Stratini was so genuinely moved that he could no 
longer preserve his poise nor veil the prideful, par¬ 
ental affection which stirred his dynamic being. 

“It is done!” he murmured, as he relaxed in his 
swivel chair. “She is made . . . and Stratini’s judg¬ 
ment is vindicated!” 

The emerald-shaded lamp on his desk shed a sympa¬ 
thetic light upon the glistening moisture about his, 
joyful eyes; and impatient over his weakness, Stra¬ 
tini wiped them brusquely with a great silk handker¬ 
chief. Then, lest by chance, this display of human 
290 


THIS WOMAN 


291 


frailty might have been observed, he sonorously blew 
his nose. 

Faintly, yet distinctly, the familiar muted music 
was wafted through the walls to his ears, and his 
imagination pictured the action of the opera as it 
drew to its tempestuous close. From the walls, count¬ 
less photographs of noted stars looked down upon 
Stratini fondly. Carmens of other days challenged 
him to compare them adversely with the one who was 
singing now; and directeurs whose laurels were mem¬ 
ories, beamed upon their successor in fully under¬ 
standing congratulation. Framed programs recalled 
other gala nights, and revived associations long laid 
in lavender, while the handbill spread on his knee pled 
for preservation in company with these reminders of 
earlier glory. 

With a whimsical smile he examined the box-office 
report placed on his desk in his absence. Its figures 
laughed at deficits and would delight the directors, but 
Stratini ignored the dollars and cents, and only re¬ 
garded the crowded house as homage to his Song¬ 
bird. Naturally curiosity had played a part in their 
coming, but after to-night nothing would keep Carol’s 
admirers away. What credit was his he accepted 
with silent gratification, yet he knew that his teach¬ 
ing alone had not brought about Carol’s conquest. 
What he had done was well enough, but he had still 
more to do . . . and impatiently he awaited the out¬ 
come of the evening. 

Musing in silence, he reached for a Russian cigarette 
and deeply inhaled its fragrance as someone quietly 
opened the door and stood still on the threshold. His 
expression changed in an instant as he wheeled about 
in his chair, and then, in spite of his grip on him¬ 
self, an exclamation escaped him. Having come back- 
stage from her box, Mrs. Rhinebeck-Sturdevant was 
smiling in at him, fearful lest even her welcome in- 




292 


THIS WOMAN 


trusion might interrupt the maestro in some important 
planning. 

“Come in!” he called, rising eagerly. “Isn’t she 
wonderful, Eleanore. ... I knew she had it in her!” 

“She’s the greatest Carmen I ever heard!” Mrs. 
R.-S. enthused, “but I shuddered each time she ap¬ 
peared. . . . Stratti it was horrible . . . magnificent 
but incredible, that beneath her make-up . . . that 
she-devil was Carol!” 

“I told you she could act . . . that day when she 
hurled the candlestick at me!” he reminded her with 
amusement. 

“But she wasn't acting then,” Mrs. R.-S. objected. 
“You had hurt her cruelly.” 

“Precisely,” Stratini agreed. “It was much the 
same to-night, only, instead of Stratini alone, hun¬ 
dreds witnessed the breaking-out of her pent up 
passion.” 

“Is the stage so unreal to you that cannot under¬ 
stand how it frightened me when I saw her like that?” 
Mrs. R.-S. implored him. “Pretense that it was, her 
characterization is far from a lovable one. Now and 
then the spirit that flashed from her eyes was re- 
voltingly hideous! One almost dreaded the fate of the 
men who loved her!” 

Stratini shrugged. “One does pity the lovers of 
really great singers. I know ... I have felt the 
impulse which comes when one succumbs to their 
wiles. . . .” 

“You cannot compare Carol . . . with Gironde for 
instance!” she flashed at him indignantly . . . not 
a little jealously, perhaps. “Yet to-night her vile¬ 
ness seemed so whom that I found myself almost 
despising her . . . completely forgetting that her suc¬ 
cess is my dearest desire.” 

Upset, she tapped the top of his desk with her fan, 
and he watched the glitter of jewels at her throat 
as the faint light of the lamp made them sparkle 




THIS WOMAN 


293 


when her quick breathing caused her collarette to rise 
and fall. “It is a terrible thing to believe that a woman 
can be like that,” she shuddered. “Poor Whitney was 
stunned as he watched her.” 

Stratini nodded. “His evident woe would have 
made a vampire relent!” 

“It was positively pathetic . . . his distress!” 
Mrs. R.-S. sympathized. “He never took his eyes from 
her; and once, when Delatour held her in his arms 
. . . and she kissed him . . . shockingly ... I 
thought poor Whitney would leap across the foot¬ 
lights.” 

“Bah!” the impresario waved his hand deprecat- 
ingly. “I’m glad Carol did not observe him. Many 
a performance has been ruined by just such untimely 
displays of personal sentiment.” 

“You must admit,” Mrs. R.-S. defended, “that Whit¬ 
ney could hardly relish all that he saw. Would you 
like to see me in another man’s arms . . . inviting 
him with every lure a woman can express . . . with 
her lips, her eyes, her voluptuous features . . . and 
even her very gestures?” 

Stratini burst out laughing, and his great form 
shook with mirth at her impossible suggestion. “My 
dear Eleanore! You couldn't do it ... it isn’t in 
you!” 

“You mean that I am not sufficiently fascinating 
. . . not wanton enough . . . ?” Her tone was a little 
hurt, although she sensed the compliment he meant to* 
imply. 

“Eleanore!” he protested. “You know you couldn’t 
enact a role like that ... no woman can unless she 
has really been dragged in the mire and holds the 
world in contempt . . . except in the rarest of in¬ 
stances . . . and Carol is not one of them. Yet Carol 
has done a remarkable thing in making even you feel 
that the conscienceless creature you watched was 
really a harlot at heart.” 





294 


THIS WOMAN 


“Oh, I didn’t mean that!” she said hastily, horri¬ 
fied at his inference, “and I suppose you’ll laugh at 
me when I tell you what I did think. . . ” 

“Shall I tell you?” he asked with a smile. “She 
cared not a snap of her fingers for the applause she 
earned, and I have no doubt that her every risque 
movement caused her exquisite pain . . . yet she was 
determined to disgust just one man in her audience 
. . . which is why she appeared to give herself to 
Delatour as she did.” 

Mrs. R.-S. nodded, reluctant to have him confirm her 
theory. “Yet since it is certain she loves him, how 
can she torture him so? She cannot fairly blame 
Whitney for what the Rector has said. . . 

“Should not, you mean,” he corrected, “yet I sus¬ 
pect that she places the blame where it really belongs. 
Ry the way, I saw the dear Doctor out in the foyer 
this evening, chatting amiably with the beautiful Mrs. 
Delancey. No doubt the two were concocting some 
delicious story for millions of gaping canaille to read 
and believe!” 

“I am weary of that man!” Mrs. R.-S. sighed, and 
her eyes grew determined. “If he dares to refer to 
Carol again, I shall intercede with the Bishop!” 

“And spoil the publicity I couldn’t hope to pur¬ 
chase at any price?” Stratini held up his hands. “But 
listen!” 

Salvo after salvo of applause fairly shook the 
building and shouts of “Bravo!” thundered through 
pandemonium. For a moment they were silent, and 
then Stratini slowly lit a fresh cigarette. 

“Apparently they liked her,” he observed with a 
quizzical smile, and consulted his watch. “That was 
the last call after the final curtain. Her debut is 
history now. . . .” 

“A chapter of which you may be proud!” Mrs. 
R.-S. said loyally, and he would have taken her hand, 




THIS WOMAN 


295 


but the door was thrown suddenly open and Carol 
burst radiantly into the room. 

“You said I’d do it . . . and I did!” she cried as 
her eyes glittered, and with a gay little laugh, hurled 
an armful of flowers at the impresario’s feet. 

“Oh, Stratti!” she went on excitedly, “I’ve never 
known such an evening . . . never known I could let 
myself go like that. When I first stared out into 
the blackness, and a thousand eyes blazed at me, I 
wanted to run away ... all those glasses trained on 
me, made me feel actually naked . . . and I seemed 
to feel the hot flush sweep over my bare flesh! I im¬ 
agined myself stripped of everything . . . poise, 
pride, presence of mind . . . every vestige of self- 
respect . . . and I knew in an instant how Magda¬ 
len felt when they wanted to stone her!” 

“What perfect bliss!” sighed Stratini, “to feel a 
role like that! But instead of hurling stones, they 
pelted you with bouquets. My dear, I’m delighted 
with you!” 

“We all are!” Mrs. R.-S. caught her hand and 
pressed it eagerly. “The others are coming too . . . 
to tell you how splendid you were!” 

“I wish they wouldn’t,” Carol drew back in alarm, 
“somehow I don’t feel . . . like seeing people to¬ 
night.” 

“Your days of being a shrinking violet are faded 
and gone,” Stratini shook his finger at her wagishly. 
“You no longer belong to yourself. . . .” 

“You’re always telling me that!” Carol flared at 
him. 

“Tch!” he clicked his tongue. “No temper, if you 
please! It is not to us that you owe allegiance now, 
but to that dear public we all hate so cordially, and 
yet must strive to please unceasingly. The guar¬ 
antors wish to look at you ... the critics clamor 
to kiss your hand, and if you refuse they will damn 
you . . . tell their readers you stuff yourself with 




296 


THIS WOMAN 


corned beef and talk like an ignorant fishwife! Mil¬ 
lionaires will wonder what limousines you prefer; 
and my countryman who sweeps the street will brand 
me as a traitor because you were not born in Naples 
or in Milan. And there you are!” 

“But Stratti,” she pleaded like a child, “am I never 
in all my life . . . going to be able to do as I please?” 

“That will depend entirely upon what you wish 
to do,” he informed her smilingly. “Some actresses 
do quite as they please, and in doing so, please the 
public . . . for a time . . . but untainted popularity 
is a greater asset for a singer than temporary noto¬ 
riety. . . 

“Stratti, please!” she broke in as though unable to 
hear him out, “is it necessary to test me again?” 

“Forgive me!” he repented sincerely. “To-night, 
I have asked a few really worth while people to have 
supper with us in the greenroom. It will be an or¬ 
deal, perhaps, but really, my child, you must know 
them.” 

“You are too kind!” she put both her hands on his 
shoulders, “but I can’t help wondering, Stratti, 
whether the flowers and the applause are .worth what 
they cost . . . whether any height I may attain is 
worth while after all! Oh, I know I should be elated 
. . . eternally thankful to you . . . and I should be 
supremely happy . . . and glad and gay! . . . but, 
honestly, Stratti, dear ... I don’t know whether to 
laugh ... or cry!” 

“But you will!” Mrs. R.-S. assured her tenderly. 
“It’s only natural to feel that way after the 
strain. . . .” 

“Enough!” Stratini bellowed, not at all liking the 
turn her thoughts were taking. “I will have neither 
nerves nor temperament . . . you are not great 
enough . . . yet! I have made you ... in an ab¬ 
surdly short time . . . and I will not let you unmake 




THIS WOMAN 


297 


yourself ... in less ! If you imagine you have nerves 
. . . get rid of them!” 

Carol threw back her head and half-closed her eyes 
. . . then with a little effort, she opened them again 
to smile at him. “Please don’t think I’m ungrateful 
... I couldn’t be . . . to-night of all nights! And 
I haven’t forgotten my promise to pay you . . . with 
a kiss?” 

“Imbecile!” he shieked at her. “Why offer to set¬ 
tle a debt when we are not alone? Eleanore, did you 
ever hear of such a distracting creature?” 

Mrs. R.-S. laughed, but Carol shook her head and 
looked at them helplessly. “You two understand, of 
course, but I wonder what those who applauded me 
will think about . . . your reward?” 

“What matter ?” Stratini exclaimed, out of pa¬ 
tience. “If they think at all they will make a mis¬ 
take. Why in ten thousand devils do you women 
concern yourselves so much with what people thmk 
of you?” 

“You’ve just said that I must,” Carol reminded 
him. “You say I must cater to those who come to 
hear me sing, must preen myself for the public, and let 
them stare at me to their hearts’ content. I must 
be gay when they are glad, and sigh when they are 
sad . . . that what they wish is my first concern 
. . . and what I wish . . . my last!” 

“I think you had better give me my kiss,” he said 
with twinkling eyes. “In a moment more you’re sure 
to repent . . . because Eleanore will not like it. Be¬ 
sides, after the way you sang to-night, you deserve 
a kiss from me!” 

The contagion of his teasing turned Carol to a 
lighter mood, and with hand on her hip, she offered 
her lips . . . tantalizingly. Her eyes suggested the 
warmth which might melt her coldness, and reminded 
him of her scene with Delatour; but he laughingly 




298 


THIS WOMAN 


ignored her play and caught her roughly in a giant 
grasp. 

Mrs. R.-S. turned away with pretended pique, but in¬ 
wardly admiring Stratini’s resourceful method of di¬ 
verting the girl. Then the door flew open precipi¬ 
tously, and Gramercy Bleeker and Aline halted on the 
threshold. 

“Why you old roue /” exclaimed the pert, diaphan¬ 
ous creature who danced into the office. “The idea 
of your man-petting Carol right in front of Mummy!” 

Then, as his pupil eluded him, her cheeks aflame 
beneath their layers of make-up and powder, Aline 
threw her arms about Carol and absurdly bade Stra- 
tini cease his caresses. 

“You perfect darling!” she enthused as she stepped 
back to better view her close-up of Carmen . “I never 
knew it was in you to be so alluringly awful!” 

“Was I, dear?” Carol asked, her manner suddenly 
timid, and she hastily glanced from Bleeker to the 
open door. But in the group which stared in at them 
from a discreet distance, she again failed to find the 
man she was seeking . . . and her sigh was either one 
of relief or of disappointment. Stratini was not quite 
certain which, but he sensed a depression of spirit 
which would interfere with his plans if he could not 
correct it promptly. 

“Do not hurry in changing,” he switched the sub¬ 
ject, as he urged Carol to go to her dressing-room. 
“Rest for a little, and when you are fresh once more, 
come to us in the greenroom.” 

Aline wished to go with her, but Stratini vetoed 
her plan, and he carefully closed the office door when 
Carol had swept across the dismantled stage to give 
herself into the hands of her waiting attendant. 

“I thought she was going to break down,” Mrs. 
R.-S. sympathized with perfect understanding. “Of 
course, she expected Whitney, and it makes me simply 
furious that he is not here!” 




THIS WOMAN 


299 


“Perhaps he felt a certain delicacy in appearing at 
such a moment,” Stratini suggested. “He may have 
felt out of place in such a picture. . . .” 

“But I telephoned to his office only this after¬ 
noon,” Mrs. R.-S. informed him, “to tell him not to 
forget the documents we will need. . . .” 

“Everything is here,” Stratini announced, and with 
the gesture of a magician, he snatched a silken scarf 
from a table beside his desk. On a velvet cushion 
rested an ivory casket of unique carving, an ex¬ 
quisite antique which made Aline exclaim with sur¬ 
prised delight. “The original articles of incorpora¬ 
tion,” Stratini explained as he lifted the lid, “and 
here is the deed we sign to transfer the stock to 
Carol.” 

“What’s the plot?” demanded Aline, “I’m not in 
on this little secret.” 

“What a pity!” Stratini mocked her. . . . “We 
didn’t wish Carol to know it. Your mother suggests 
that the present board of directors withdraw from 
financial interest in Carol, Incorporated . . . that we 
transfer our holdings to Carol and cancel her notes to 
us ... as a sort of debut present.” 

“How perfectly splendid!” Aline clapped her hands. 

“The only question in my mind,” Mrs. R.-S. inter¬ 
jected, “is whether or not she’ll accept the stock as a 
gift from us.” 

“How can she decline if you, offer it?” Stratini 
asked. “At best this little matter of business is only a 
make-believe and a subterfuge ... a concession to 
Mrs. Grundy, and a shield which proved ineffective 
against the darts of Estelle Delancey.” 

“I could slap that minx!” exclaimed Mrs. R.-S., but 
Stratini only chuckled. 

“Let’s try to think of pleasant things,” he sug¬ 
gested. “Whitney has already signed, leaving a 
vacant line for you to head the list.” And he passed 
a pen to Mrs. R.-S. as she seated herself at his desk. 




VIII. 


“Volla!” Stratini added his own signature with a 
foreign flourish. “We are ready for the finale of 
our little experiment. As soon as Carol comes we 
will tell her, before we join the others and must share 
her with our guests.” 

He folded the blue-backed sheet and replaced it in 
the casket, re-covering the ivory treasure with its silken 
scarf. “And now, while we wait, suppose we sip a 
silent toast to our venture’s splendid conclusion?” 

A knock at the door punctuated his suggestion, and 
with a gesture, he requested Bleeker to answer it. 
His frown boded ill for undesired interruption, yet 
his guarded manner suggested curious anticipation as 
he opened a music cabinet which served as a cellarette. 

“Well, I’ll be ... I mean, good evening!” Bleeker 
burst out in annoyed amazement, and Stratini glanced 
quickly around as he fondled a cobwebbed bottle with 
cautious hands. For a moment Aline was speechless, 
but Mrs. R.-S. merely leveled her lorgnon in the direc¬ 
tion of the intruder, and then deliberately turned her 
back upon the open door. 

Framed in the entrance stood the Rector, appar¬ 
ently surprised at the sight of Stratini’s companions, 
and somewhat abashed at the frigid attitude of Mrs. 
Rhinebeck-Sturdevant. Yet he summoned what calm 
he might, and mustered his dignity as he nodded 
coldly to Bleeker and stepped inside. 

“I am sorry to disturb this gathering,” he began 
with an effort to make his voice impressive, “but 
the good soldier naturally goes where his cause 
calls. . . .” 

“A martyr to duty, as it were!” Stratini com¬ 
mented sarcastically, holding up the dusty bottle to 
300 


THIS WOMAN 


301 


see its label more clearly. “Shut the door, Gram, 
and ask the Doctor to join us. . . . Will you reach 
me the glasses?” 

The Rector assumed his most austere pose and ad¬ 
dressed himself to Stratini, endeavoring as best he 
might, to ignore the others . . . and not succeeding 
to any marked degree. “I did not come here to toast 
this woman, but to denounce her!” he hurled at the 
impresario, and, holding his head high, glared wither- 
ingly at Bleeker. 

There was a moment’s silence, broken only by the 
tapping of Mrs. R.-S.’s rings on Stratini’s desk top, 
but Doctor Duane went on with an effort to seem 
oblivious of her presence. 

“When men and women of your standing in the com¬ 
munity countenance a performance such as we have 
just witnessed, it is high time the clergy called some¬ 
one to account!” he snapped. “The audience itself 
was bad enough in its lack of dress and decorum 
. . . filling the lounge rooms with cigarette smoke 
and the odors of pocket flasks. . . 

“I do not dictate the manners and customs of the 
patrons of this opera house!” Stratini cut in im¬ 
patiently. “I assume the police were satisfied or they 
would have intervened . . . and possibly have ar¬ 
rested these outrageous ladies!” 

“I am not referring to your guests,” the Rector 
explained, and Aline pretended to read the inscription 
on a picture in the corner, “but I do wish to remind 
you that you do dictate the policies which govern 
your singers. You have just permitted the most 
scandalous spectacle ever perpetrated on a New York 
public ...” 

“I heard the howls of horror,” Stratini broke in 
again, as he searched in the drawer of his desk for a 
corkscrew. “Judging from the noise, the shock must 
have been terrific!” 

“I did not imagine that the authorities would 




302 


THIS WOMAN 


countenance such licentiousness on any stage!” the 
violent cleric went on without deigning to comment 
upon Stratini’s remark. “In the poor, abused name 
of art, you exhibit a less than half-clad courtesan 
whose every sensuous movement . . .” 

“Enough !” Stratini stepped toward him. “You 
are in my office, in the presence of my friends, and 
you are speaking of my pupil. You will choose your 
words more carefully or I may so far forget myself 
as to assist you to the door.” 

“Are you attempting to intimidate me!” challenged 
the Rector, puffing himself like an irate pouter pigeon. 

“I am merely warning you that you seem to for¬ 
get yourself,” Stratini said quietly. 

“What I have seen this evening, I shall never for¬ 
get !” the little man lifted his eyes to the ceiling. 
Then, facing the impresario, he pointed his finger 
accusingly into his face. “I formally protest against 
further presentation of this vile opera, and against the 
appearance of this disgraceful woman! If you defy 
me, I shall summon the aid of the Vice Association 
and appeal to the Commissioner of Police! In my 
opinion, sir . . .” 

“Your opinion!” Stratini exclaimed in disgust. 
“You appear to overlook the opinion of some two 
thousand cultured men and women who sat in the 
audience and hailed this ‘disgraceful woman’ as an 
artiste beyond compare and the greatest singer of 
her age! I suppose what they think does not matter? 
Not since Paris was in the crinoline stage, has Carmen 
shocked the prudes?” 

“ ‘The counsel of the wicked shall not prevail!’ ” the 
Rector intoned piously. 

“Yet fools rush in where angels fear to tread!” 
Stratini quoted in answer. “Did it ever occur to you, 
Doctor Duane, that you make yourself ridiculous with 
your ranting?” 

“How can you glory in such indecency?” the Rec- 





THIS WOMAN 


303 


tor demanded, flustered and all too conscious of the 
impudent wink Bleeker exchanged with Aline. 

“Just a moment,” Stratini requested silence, and took 
up the ringing telephone. “Si, this is Signor Stratini 
. . . my dear sir, I am overwhelmed. . . . Si! . . . 
Si! ... I could not have asked more . . . and it is 
not given to every impresario to discover so great a 
star! . . . Indeed yes . . . she is at my elbow, and 
I shall be charmed to give her your compliments. 
... A thousand thanks, my dear Bishop !” 

Doctor Duane gasped, and Stratini chortled with 
glee as he hung up the instrument. “He is in Phila¬ 
delphia, and was eager to know how our Songbird 
did. . . .” 

“Incredible!” doubted the Rector. 

“Call him up!” Stratini indicated the telephone. “I 
believe he is attending a meeting in the Diocese House 
. . . you know the number perhaps?” 

“It would not change my attitude,” the Rector de¬ 
clined. “That you are all in league against me, does 
not lessen my zeal. Your open approval of such 
flagrancy wounds me, but it does not deter me from 
my duty. My course is not changed even by the fact 
that my own nephew wishes actually to marry this 
actress. . . .” 

“I suppose you would wink at his amour if his 
intent was less legal!” Stratini sneered at him. 

Exasperated, the Rector could not find words to 
answer as his cheeks turned crimson. Then before 
he could recover himself, Carol came smiling into the 
room, quite changed in her stunning evening gown, and 
paused as she stared incredulously at the almost 
apoplectic distortion of the minister’s vision. He 
seemed about to cry out, but no sound came from him 
as he apparently recognized in her features something 
long forgotten, and shrank away from Carol as she 
stepped slowly toward him. 

“Who is this man?” she demanded with growing 




304 


THIS WOMAN 


emotion, and her eyes searched the group for an 
answer. 

“Haven’t you met Doctor Duane?” Mrs. R.-S. re¬ 
called that Carol had not. 

“Once!” Carol said very slowly fixing her gaze on 
the mortified man who vainly sought to control his 
desperate confusion. Then with a note of scathing 
accusation, she pilloried him with her question . . . 
“So it was you who sent me to jail? . . .you . . . 
you hypocrite!” 

Unable to believe her ears, Mrs. R.-S. looked from 
Carol to Doctor Duane, and slowly her lip curled as 
she saw him crumple before the girl he had come 
to denounce. 

“So you are here again to lie about me!” Carol’s 
voice was horrible in its bitter modulation, yet her 
slender frame trembled with the intensity of her tor¬ 
tured fury. “This is the man,” she pointed at him 
with outraged scorn, “who charged me with the crime 
for which his Master forgave the Magdalen!” 

“Carol!” Mrs. R.-S. stepped to her side. “Surely 
you cannot mean . . . ?” 

“Oh, can't I?” Carol put out her hand and squarely 
faced the Rector. “I wonder if you’ve even the 
slightest conception of the hell to which you damned 
me with your untrue testimony, when you appeared 
against me in the police court that night! But of 
course, you couldn't have, and I don’t suppose you’ll 
ever know that shame and sorrow I’ve suffered since 
yet let them take me away in that awful patrol!” 

Her muscles grew rigid, her eyes wild, and she 
leaned forward as she went on with her astounding re¬ 
cital. . . . “Oh, I’ll never forget them . . . the jeer¬ 
ing, curious crowd . . . the insults and the brutal 
laughs of the big policemen . . . then the jail where 
unjust confinement burned a lasting brand on the soul 
of the girl you know damned well did not agree to what 
you said you asked her to do!” 




THIS WOMAN 


305 


Her rising tone was almost a shriek as she con¬ 
fronted him with mounting, tormented passion, and 
the utterly dumfounded man sought to shield him¬ 
self with a shrug of amazed consternation. 

“You do seem to be a great actress!” he sniffed 
with grudging contempt, “but the story you tell of 
yourself would tend to convict you of even more . . .” 

“I said you lied, and you knew you lied . . . and 
you know you’re lying now!” her fingers twitched 
spasmodically as her frenzy reached a crescendo . . . 
and then she grew calmer, as she lashed him with her 
logic and put him on the defensive. “It was only 
your word against mine, but of course, the magistrate 
on the bench believed you instead of me. . . .” 

“I have wondered what became of Mary Drew!” the 
Rector nodded sagely, “and it is most fortunate that 
I may inform your sponsors ...” 

“Of what?” Stratini silenced him wii;h an imperative 
gesture. “I knew this Mary Drew . . . she is 
dead. . . .” 

“She cannot be!” the Rector protested, “I tell 
you ...” 

“I say I attended her funeral!” Stratini thundered. 
“If I am not telling the truth . . . then perhaps you 
are mistaken.” 

“No, he isn't mistaken!” Carol contradicted, in¬ 
dignantly declining the alibi Stratini offered her. 
“Until this moment, I have never known the name of 
the man who accused me of the only thing in the 
world that matters to me. He wasn’t dressed like this 
when I saw him before . . . and his actions never 
suggested to me that he might be a minister.” 

“They hardly would . . . even now!” the impre¬ 
sario commented, and the Rector frowned resentfully. 

“I hardly knew what was happening!” Carol ap¬ 
pealed frantically to Mrs. R.-S., fighting with all that 
was in her for justification. “I’ve tried so hard to 
forget it all, but now that I see him again, I want to 




306 


THIS WOMAN 


make him know what he’s done to me . . . want him 
to pay as I’ve paid . . . not only for what he said 
that night, but for what he has hinted since . . . and 
I’m going to make him deny every word he’s uttered!” 

“Surely you cannot condemn me now . . . when she 
admits her guilt?” the Rector hastily sought Mrs. 
R.-S.’s support. “When I came to this room to pro¬ 
test about her performance, I had no idea that this 
creature was once a woman . . 

“J think I'll kill you if you say that!” Carol’s tone 
was coldly tense, and even Stratini shuddered at the 
light which lurked in her eyes, at the clenching of her 
fingers, which seemed to long to clutch at the Rector’s 
throat ... to tear his very bulging eyes from their 
sockets. Then, from sheer exhaustion, she sank into 
a chair and her shoulders shook with emotion as she 
sobbed hysterically. 

No one moved ... no one ventured a comment 
. . . and Doctor Duane swallowed with mortification 
as he realized the ostracism meted out to him. Then, 
in seeking to save himself, he assumed an injured air, 
and once more his supplication was made to Mrs. 
R.-S., who was bending over Carol with tender com¬ 
passion. 

“Whatever you may have thought of my attitude 
before,” his voice broke gratingly on their ears, “you 
as a mother must sympathize . . .” 

“My sympathies are evident, I think,” Mrs. R.-S. 
looked up, and the Rector recoiled from the disdain 
in her eyes. 

“But think of your daughter ... of my 
nephew . . .” he tried to bolster his cause. 

“What about your nephew?” Carol sprang to her 
feet. “He means nothing to me! The only thing that 
matters is the lie you’ve told . . . and I wouldn’t 
marry a man of your breed if he crawled to me on 
his knees! You’ve stolen something more precious to 
me than all the men in the world . . . and before you 




THIS WOMAN 


307 


leave this room, you’re going to give it back! Do you 
hear what I say!” 

“It is not within my power ... to absolve sin,” 
Doctor Duane turned away. 

“Thank God for that!” exclaimed Carol fervently, 
“but you’re going to stay here and listen while I tell 
them my story. . . .” 

“Oh, come!” Stratini wished to persuade her. “We 
all believe in you . . . why bother to answer him?” 

“I think, perhaps,” said Mrs. R.-S., “Carol would 
rather go on . . . and no doubt, what she has to say 
will be interesting to the Rector.” 

Carol gave her a grateful look and controlled her¬ 
self with an effort; then in a tone that was little above 
a whisper, she began to supplement what they knew 
of her. 

“I went to that dingy restaurant because I thought 
it was cheap, and it wasn’t until this man came and sat 
at my table, that I suspected the sort of place I’d 
drifted into. I’d noticed the dancing and drinking, of 
course, but all I wanted was food ... a little time to 
think what I ought to do . . . although I was more 
than lonely enough to have welcomed company. . . .” 

“So it seemed,” the Rector commented dryly, vainly 
searching for ground on which to entrench himself. “I 
went to this resort in the course of my investiga¬ 
tions. . . .” 

“Let her tell her story!” Stratini pounded his desk. 

“Am I being judged, sir?” came the haughty protest. 

“A woman is being given the opportunity to vindi¬ 
cate herself,” Mrs. R.-S. observed. “You surely will 
not wish to deny her that right?” 

“He came to my table,” Carol went on, before the 
Rector could answer, “he and another man. There 
were no other places and they asked if they might sit 
down. I agreed, and he started to question me . . . 
learned I had been in Paris . . . that I was back, un¬ 
successful, seeking a place in the chorus . . . looking 




308 


THIS WOMAN 


for work that would pay me enough to live. . . . Then 
they ordered drinks . . . and insisted that I have one 
. . . and the man with him said that he had an apart¬ 
ment up-town. I wanted to get away, but I didn’t 
know what to do . . . and then, before I could say a 
word, the place was full of police!” 

She hung her head as though overcome by the recol¬ 
lection, and Doctor Duane fidgeted and edged his way 
to the door, against which Bleeker was leaning, with 
his lanky form barring the exit. There followed a 
pause which the Rector found awkward, Carol looked 
up at him with grim determination. 

“An Inspector began to question me, but this man 
wouldn’t let me answer . . . ” and then she stood up, 
and her burning eyes glittered like those of a tigress. 

. . . “He said,” she began, and suddenly stopped, as 
her whole body quivered with suppressed loathing and 
hatred. . . . “ Tell them what you said ... if you’re 
coward enough to repeat it!” 

“What would one naturally do?” the Rector evaded. 
“The place was a den. . . .” 

“We are not discussing the place!” Stratini re¬ 
minded him. 

“You see!” Carol cried out with a pitiful laugh, “He 
knows it wasn’t true and he won’t say it again! But I 
hadn’t a chance . . . with no one to vouch for me . . . 
and they herded me in with other girls who were crying 
and kicking and screaming. One of them seemed to 
understand what had happened to me, and whispered 
not to tell the police my own name. I couldn’t have 
done that anyway ... I was too dazed and ashamed 
. . . and I knew I could never go back to the boarding 
house I’d left! Then for the next thirty days, I 
descended into hell . . . and when I came out I didn’t 
want to live any more. Oh, it wasn’t being in prison 
... it wasn’t the hard work I’d done . . . but what 
my being sent there for made everyone think of me!” 

“But you forget,” Stratini soothed, putting his hand 





THIS WOMAN 


309 


on her shoulder, “we tore that chapter out of the book 
. . . and burned the pages, together.” 

“I’d like to forget . . . but I can’t!” she turned to 
him with a smile that was brimming with sorrow, “and 
even now I wish . . . I’d drowned myself instead of 
singing outside your window!” 

“Carol!” Mrs. R.-S. caught her in her arms, “you 
couldn’t have done that, dear . . , because you had 
done no wrong ... so God sent you to me!” 

“Then you believe me!” Carol’s eyes lighted in 
ecstasy. 

“Need I answer that?” Mrs. R.-S. asked her gently. 
“You’ve merely been condemned on circumstantial evi¬ 
dence, by a man whose mistaken zeal must have driven 
him insane . . . and that man presumes to interpret 
Christianity to his erring parishioners!” 

“Finding a girl in such an environment made my 
apparent error natural,” the Rector hastened to say, 
and then, as though wiping the slate, he added, “I’m 
sorry. . . 

“Does being sorry help?” Carol flashed at him. 
“Does that help me to hold up my head and not be 
ashamed? . . . not that I’ve done anything I want to 
hide . . . but because it’s almost impossible for a 
woman to prove herself innocent . . . even though she 
has been accused without reason!” 

“Why didn’t you come to me?” Mrs. R.-S. reproached 
her. “You shouldn’t have suffered in silence.” 

“I wish I had . . . but then, when I was about to 
... it seemed as though you’d think me a thief as well 
as something worse!” Carol confessed brokenly. “And 
what could I do to prove my case? Literally nothing. 
The things he persisted in saying . . . about the stage 
and of me, and of Stratti . . . only made matters 
worse . . . especially when he thought I wanted to 
marry Whitney. . . .” 

“You mean, my dear,” Mrs. R.-S. intervened with 




310 


THIS WOMAN 


deliberate inflection, “when Whitney wished to marry 
you.” 

“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” Carol abandoned all reserve, 
“I’ve had enough of Duanes for the rest of my life!” 
And she looked toward the Rector with incredible dis¬ 
illusionment. “I’ve always thought that ministers 
worked to make us happy and good, but this one seems 
to delight in throwing mud at us. Instead of showing 
us how beautiful things can be, he tears down our 
reputations and makes us believe there’s nothing but 
evil in life. . . .” 

“Is the creature mad?” gasped the affronted dominie. 

“Mad!” she shrilled. “Yes, I must be mad! And 
since you’re convinced that I must be bad, I’ll show 
you that I am! Why, you haven’t any idea how vile a 
woman can be . . . but if that’s all you expect to find 
in the world ... all you wish to point out . . . 
follow me and I’ll show you the shortest road to hell!” 

“Voila!” Stratini chuckled. “My case is proved 
. . . assert a fallacy often enough and it becomes a 
fact!” 

“As for your precious nephew!” Carol continued as 
though aware of the others’ presence, “you needn’t 
have any fear that I’ll contaminate him. Do you think 
I’d mix my red blood with the icy vinegar that runs in 
the veins of such pious prigs as you Duanes!” 

“Carol!” a hurt protest came from the doorway, and 
looking up in quick surprise, she saw Whitney in the 
corridor. His expression was one of unspeakable dis¬ 
appointment, and Carol knew that he must have heard 
her outburst. Then, in a twinkling, her attitude 
changed as she sensed the unpleasant significance of 
the little group behind him. 




IX. 


“How fortunate that you have come in time!” the 
Rector breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of his 
nephew. “Now you have heard from her own lips what 
type of woman she is.” 

Whitney nodded gravely. “I have known for a long 
time,” he said, and then fell silent as he stepped aside 
for Estelle Delancey to enter the room. Following her 
came the former Rhinebeck-Sturdevant butler, and the 
spectacled detective Carol had not seen since the time 
of Judson’s arrest at Clifcleft. His presence puzzled 
the Rector and aroused Carol’s ire, for she scented 
humiliation in being confronted by him, and sensed that 
this new indignity had been devised by Whitney. 

Estelle avoided her challenging glance and seemed to 
shrink from Mrs. R.-S.’s scrutiny; but there was no 
mistaking the detective’s satisfaction, no uncertainty 
in his evident knowledge concerning Carol. 

“At last you must see I was right,” Doctor Duane 
took encouragement from his nephew’s reply. “Yet I 
know too well the folly of youth, and perhaps you 
would not have believed me if I had repeated later what 
has just been said.” 

“In fairness to you,” Whitney responded quietly, “I 
have had Mr. Brown look into Miss Drayton’s ante¬ 
cedents. ...” 

Carol’s eyes flashed with contempt that was reminis¬ 
cent of her expression as Carmen . “Oh, this is deli¬ 
cious !” she turned with a shrug to Stratini. “Imagine 
such consideration for one’s relatives . . . and such 
caution! The man asks me to be his wife, and then 
. . . to make sure that my vicious past will not sully 
his family name, he investigates my record! I hope it 
shocked him sufficiently ... do give me a cigarette!” 

311 


312 


THIS WOMAN 


Her evening gown had transformed her, and no 
longer she seemed like the reckless creature to whom 
the Rector had taken such violent exception; but now, 
as she leaned toward Stratini, as he held a match for 
her cigarette, the flash of her scorn at Whitney was 
more than worthy of Carmen. Imploringly, he held 
out his hands, begging her to listen, but she only 
shrugged and stepped away to avoid his contact. 

“Tell her, Stratti!” he pleaded, wounded by her con¬ 
tempt, “tell her I only wished to prove that my uncle 
was wrong!” 

“Whitney!” exclaimed the Rector with indignation, 
completely taken back at his nephew’s statement. 

“It’s true!” Whitney faced him. “I couldn’t believe 
what you said, and I knew the things of which Mrs. 
Delancey hinted were worse than impossible. . . .” 

“It’s a pity you can’t trust her!” Carol sneered at 
him, “but don’t let me interrupt. Finish your pretty 
story ... of course, you found that your uncle was 
quite correct?” 

“Of course I didn't!” Whitney included them all in 
the sweep of his hand. “I found it more than absurd 
. . . just as you know I must have, . . . but I couldn’t 
contradict then, dear . . . until I could prove the 
truth.” 

“Why bother?” asked Carol bitterly. “No one else 
seems to care, and I’m sure it doesn’t make the slightest 
difference to me.” 

“You don’t mean that!” he charged her earnestly. 
“You know that you do care and that I do, too. If 
Stratti hadn’t let Judson go, I’d have had the story 
sooner, but now Brown knows all that happened, and 
Judson and Mrs. Delancey are here to confirm his 
statements.” 

“Whitney,” said Mrs. R.-S., a little impatiently, 
“isn’t all this just a little absurd? Isn’t my accept¬ 
ance of Carol quite sufficient for you . . . even if your 




THIS WOMAN 


B13 


own love for her doesn’t make such dramatics entirely 
unnecessary?” 

“No!” he answered sharply. “When I explain, I 
think you’ll agree that it’s time to tear away the net¬ 
work of lies that have been woven about her. You’ve 
all advised her to forget the charges made against her, 
but why should she submit to being suspected of several 
things that she didn’t even do?” 

“We have accepted that as a matter of course,” Mrs. 
R.-S. reminded him. 

“I realize that,” he bowed, as Carol watched him 
curiously through the cloud of smoke she blew to veil 
her face, “but nevertheless, the injustice of it all has 
rankled within me, and I’ve felt that Carol would be 
happier if she were unequivocably vindicated.” 

“Perhaps,” Mrs. R.-S. admitted, “although she has 
never needed to be . . . with me.” 

“Yet even you will be happy to know what Brown 
has learned,” Whitney insisted, “and if Carol doesn’t 
mind I’m going to tell you. . . .” 

“Nothing a Duane could say could possibly offend 
me,” Carol answered sarcastically, not yet quite pre¬ 
pared to unmask her innermost feeling, although she 
was hardly able to restrain her impulse to throw her¬ 
self into Whitney’s arms and beg him to forgive her. 
For it seemed now that she had wronged him and that, 
misunderstanding his motives, she had caused herself 
as well as him, unnecessary suffering. Yet her pride 
and her natural resentment, and the ache which had not 
passed, forbade her to give in as yet, before her 
churchly accuser. 

“I’m sorry, Carol,” Whitney began, with tender 
understanding, and winced at the lash of her eyes as 
she answered. . . . 

“Being sorry seems a family trait that you share 
with the Rector!” 

But Whitney turned to the others and drew from 
his pocket the sworn report given him by the detective. 




314 


THIS WOMAN 


“Brown has traced your history back to the time when 
you lived with your Aunt in Nevada, before you went 
abroad . . . and he knows every move you’ve made 
since you returned to New York. It is all in this 
report, dear, and if any man in the world can testify 
against you with first hand knowledge . . . that man 
is my reverend uncle!” 

The only sound in the office came from Estelle De- 
lancey, who softly began to sob as her overwrought 
nerves gave way. Carol looked at her wonderingly, 
then let her eyes meet Whitney’s, trying to fully com¬ 
prehend what she had heard him say. 

“You really mean that?” she found words at last. 
“You really believe it, Whitney?” 

“I know it!” he said with emotion, and stepped closer 
without any fear of her shunning him now. “There 
never was the slightest breath of scandal about any¬ 
thing you did, until the night my uncle caused your 
arrest. . . 

“Whitney!” exclaimed the indignant Rector, “what 
are you insinuating ... is it possible that you doubt 
my integrity?” 

“ Your integrity!” laughed Carol, facing him furi¬ 
ously. “Is it any more unassailable than mine? Since 
Whitney has made this search and has not found me 
wanting, suppose you tell them why you told the police 
what you did! There isn’t a blemish in all of my record 
. . . except the one you put there . . . and since you 
say you know what you know . . . suppose you tell 
them how” 

Quickly she crossed the rug and confronted the 
agitated man like some avenging angel. And her words 
fell upon his stupefied ears like an edict of nemesis, 
calling on him to admit his own guilt or else pronounce 
her guiltless. 

“I tell you,” she said dramatically, in a tone that 
was scarcely more than a whisper in spite of its tense¬ 
ness, “that I have never been to you or to any other 




THIS WOMAN 


315 


man . . . the scarlet woman you swore on your oath 
that I was. And now that we’re both in a court where 
my word counts as well as yours, you’ll either admit 
what I say is so ... or else tell these people that you 
are the man who took from me the right to call myself 
good!” 

Utterly confounded, almost unable to speak, he 
stared at her helplessly while those about him looked 
on in silence; and Carol waited a moment to give him 
time to reply. 

“Are you willing to say that too?” she put to him 
so bluntly that any equivocation was made impossible. 

Palsied with nervousness, he shrank away from her 
with a gesture of all-consuming horror, appealing in 
vain to the others with furtive glances, and utterly 
unable to look into Carol’s eyes. “N-Naturally not!” 
he cried, horrified. “There seems to be some mistake 
... I could not, of course, go so far as to say. . . .” 

“Then admit that you spoke without knowledge . . . 
without a vestige of proof!” she demanded imperiously. 
“Admit that you were either deceived ... or else, 
that you lied!” 

“I was wrong,” the Rector shook his head slowly, 
after a little pause, in which his manner seemed to 
undergo an amazing change; but he could not quite be 
rid of his pompous, egotistic pose of self-righteous¬ 
ness. “If I have been in error, I scourge and chastise 
myself. ... I am forced to heap reproaches upon my 
own unfortunate head . . . and I gladly retract the 
words my mistake caused me to utter . . . yet even 
you can hardly blame me. . . .” 

“You heard him!” Carol called out in a frenzy of 
delight. “All of you heard what he said . . . and 
You, dear God, heard him too!” 

With clasped hands, she stood with her eyes looking 
upward, her lips moving soundlessly in a prayer of 
joyous gratitude. Then, she went quickly to Estelle 
Delancey’s side and put her arms about her. “I want 




316 


THIS WOMAN 


to thank you,” she said to her softly, “and I want you 
to realize that 1 know what you’re suffering now. . . 

“Can you know, when you did no wrong?” Estelle 
raised her tear-stained face to Carol. “It’s different 
with me, because ... I think ... I wanted to be 
plain bad. . . .” 

“No, you didn’t,” Carol regained her poise as she 
tried to comfort Estelle. “None of us really want to 
be ... we only think we do . . . and no matter what 
we tell ourselves, it hurts when others believe us to be 
•what we are not. We’ve both learned a bitter lesson, 
perhaps in a different way . . . Stratti taught you 
yours in his worldly wisdom.... while mine came 
from bigotry . . . from narrowness that will vanish 
when all of us fully understand that hurting one another 
is honestly never worth while.” 

Carol’s voice trailed off into a whisper. “And yet,” 
she thought aloud, “I’ve found myself through suffer¬ 
ing. I’ve become acquainted with my own soul . . . 
something that I thought was wanting in me . . . that 
I lacked. Doctor Duane is to be congratulated.” 

The Rector hung his head, but Whitney, unrelenting, 
ignored his uncle’s embarrassed, broken demeanor. 
“Carol, dear,” he caught her hand, “I’ve asked the 
Bishop to marry us . . . are you willing?” 

“What a ripping idea!” Aline exclaimed, dancing 
with delight, “we can have a triple wedding . . . Carol 
and you, and Gram and me . . . and Mummy and her 
old bear!” 

“Not a bad thought,” chuckled Stratini medita¬ 
tively, “but—now that I’ve beaten the Rector at his 
own game—I feel maliciously generous ... so much 
so that I think we might ask him to tie the knots 
for us.” 

Doctor Duane gazed at Stratini in dawning wonder¬ 
ment. With an effort he turned from him to face 
Carol, for he sensed that she must give the answer for 
the others as well as for herself. 




THIS WOMAN 


317 


The suggestion that his uncle should marry them 
momentarily stunned Whitney. The magnanimity 
of the thought touched something deep in him, and, as 
he raised his eyes to Carol’s, she read their mute 
appeal. 

“No, dear,” she murmured softly to him, “do not 
make me answer to-night. I can’t forget that but a 
moment ago I was unfairly accused . . . begging, 
almost in vain, for belief and forgiveness. Your uncle 
has admitted his mistake. ... It is enough—I forgive 
him. I think we should extend as freely as we ask for¬ 
giveness. But wait, Whitney . . . please. . . .” 

That she held out even such a promise, indefinite 
though it was, of asking him to officiate at her mar¬ 
riage to Whitney completely overwhelmed Doctor 
Duane. 

“You have voiced a beautiful thought,” said he, 
emotion choking him. “ ... To forgive, and to be 
forgiven! . . . I—I shouldn’t wonder but what you’re 
a better Christian than I am.” 

Whitney could only stare at his uncle, so sincere 
was the man’s humility ... so unlike the frigid self- 
righteousness with which he had always clothed himself« 
Carol’s attitude moved him to new admiration of her, 
and his voice trembled as he held out both hands and 
said: 

“Carol, dear, . . . you are truly great! Do not 
answer to-night. I will wait—a week—a month if you 
like. I have waited so long already, that a few days 
more can’t matter.” 

Carol closed her eyes, but her smile was answer 
enough. 


THE END 






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